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Prophetic Space Dust
Suppose I kept everything that I wept
In a box.
And opened it up
On the days it was painfully hot.
Would it blow with the coldest wind of my sins
To make sure that I cooled off a lot?
I think so, yeah...
That's why I keep my jokes and smiles
In a few plastic viles.
For when I need to pour them over your hair
And drown all your sorrows inside something shallow but there.
Come now this time tomorrow it'll have just been enough
To stop you from sinking into vacant stares...
And where I once left all my pride
I've now set aside
A place for it inside my dresser cabinet space.
One day now I'll pull out a shirt
And adorn myself with all the things that I'm worth
Though they may be few...
And one day I'll throw in my guilt and my rue
And lock it away,
In hopes that I may not remember the You
Who haunts me today...
And I've got my poetic ashes
Inside this porcelain tray.
Mixed with a memory butt that I've since smoked away.
And how it gathers in heaps at most opportune times
When I collect the sandy pile and burn it...
Burn it until it displays a cloud of creativity recycled.
Turn it... into something vague and obscure
But profoundly tangible enough to discern it...
And I've got my hopes and regrets
In some little ball I set on the ground.
One day we'll kick it around
And laugh at the sound it makes
When it bounces off tree trunks
And gathers up leaves when it rolls.
Dizzier now from all of the spinning it takes,
And brown from the collected gunk
On its skin... On its soul...
Yeah...
One day we'll ask our neighbors
To do us the favor
And throw it right back from their yard
Where it landed that night that I lofted it up to the stars
And hoped it would bring me a message:
Some prophetic space dust
From a rocket whose wreckage
Gathered the planet's wisdom collected.
You know... I still can't throw that high
But I swear to Death, when I see the sky
I know that I'll try at least fifty million more times
Before I die...
