There are those not made for mystery
There are those not made for mystery,
No lizards for open picked dunes of space,
It's a funny sense, brought with speed
And caught on to a running race,
Where nobody truly has a real clue,
And where the fake cannot be found,
And the birds are not forced to pay their dues
To the ones to whom I am mercy bound,
Because my eyes wander here always
And should try to lock tight to you
In all these strange unfelt plays,
They should rest unfathomed till all desire is through,
Till all care has washed away all spite,
So that all I have is your sight.