Memories of your touch
Linger within my restless...

One glaring orb,
Battling against the mundane...

America is no Freeland
Strike that notion from your head...

On the stem of a Lotus flower
Buddha's hand grasps hard...

They said he was handsomer
Than any dead man before him...

I saw my friends left brutalized
In the vapid machineries of tweaked-out nights...

Her fingers glided in ghostlike movements
Over the keys of the piano...

You never burned
as bright...

Your eyes are like the ocean.
The tides are your sorrows...