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

Memories of your touch
Linger within my restless...

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

You never burned
as bright...

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

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

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

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

One glaring orb,
Battling against the mundane...