Arms stretched out on Southern Cross,
left standing still at the seat of skies
spilled up on steps--
triptap downward, pinstriped clouds-
uits worn (out thin at the elbows)
to fit the mood--
and (still) waiting for the sound of seven
Hands stretched out on Five To Nine,
counting out cubits instead of cubicles.
Ride escalators down--
quickgrab upward, speckled paisely tie-
dye stars (glimmer gold on grades)
once shot for--
but (still) waiting for the sight of seven
Fingers stretched out on Open Desks,
until fault finds miles wound into wire.
Sleeves roll in--
quickstep outward, spit-shining leathers-
hield soles (of the masses)
scuff out gleam--
they (still) wait for the feel of seven
which is break time.
Halt, sip, coffee is divine. Everyone fix your suit up but Pause, swallow, sugar is divine. Count your down for the end of
don't touch mine;
everyone scramble but I'm
Halt, sip, coffee is divine.
Everyone fix your suit up but
Pause, swallow, sugar is divine.
Count your down for the end of
Seconds stretched out on Northern Lights,
where faces stand still at the feet of skies
spilling up the slicking stairs--
in clawgrab mouthing, grinstriped clouds-
uits worn (like skin of lambs)
with wedding irons--
we (still) wait for the taste of seven.