-by Shayne Edwin Pruett
And all the funny, wholesome limbs that dance,
Will make their awkward gestures towards me -
An everlasting lack of heat, to wrap me up at night,
We all live to dance a dream, something isn't right.
I live in a ghost park.
A dog you'll never see will surely,
Cast a shadow on your lungs.
With all the treble in that bark,
It's quite certain that you'll mark,
A letter D upon the wall,
Designate a ghost park.
Resonate the ghost parks.
The trees that whisper in the wind have nothing more to say,
When it comes time for me to play.
And a memory of D will sprout,
Something I've forgotten.
The last time that I saw D,
He tried so hard to get gotten.
Our phobia will resonate our woes,
A chilly spark of ghost intangibles,
Icy heads and toes.
But maybe no one knows,
And maybe they don't know,
How cold it really truly gets,
At night with thirty crows.
Cu-ckaw to sing that temperate spring,
Cu-ckaw to shine a light.
Cu-ckaw you dark ass motherfuckers,
Weak in the knees at night.
Fields of fountains sprouting mountains,
Of icy acid rain.
A ghost park is what I call home,
Upon an icy, lost terrain.
They said that you knew pain,
I thought that you knew pain,
But you know nothing of the sort,
Ghost parks to stake their claims.