What Holds Thee To These Desert Plains.

What holds thee to these desert plains?
This land of desolate beings,
No milk or honey for thee,
Nor gossemer flowing seas
No Rosen petals for thy lips
Nor water for thy tongue
For we are half poured in the sand
My sweatest wandering one,
We can offer spit for blood
One half heart for the whole
My fractured eyes, my strength so thin
For thy most ponderous soul.

Go flee unto the hills
Beyond the toothpick forest
Unto the waterwells
And the flowers angeled chorus
Into the plastic clouds
Where heaven meant thee be.

What holds thee to these tombs?
And us their mummied cores,
No scrap of bread for thy belly,
Nor sound to lift thy ear,
No Music for thy painted feet,
Nor melody for thy tongue,
For we are all trapped
In this land of perdition.

Go flee unto the hills,
Beyond the toothpick forest,
Unto the waterwells
And the flowers angeled chorus,
Into the plastic clouds
Where heaven meant the be.

You heal in hell my darling,
A hell not meant for thee,
And these my eyes, my darling,
Take and rend from me,
So they may see the sights,
That were never meant for me