How subtle the sound of anger feels upon the yellow springtime fields. How angry the mind is, how tranquil my rage, that billows in the breeze, discontent to absurd degrees. How much the mind wanders, pulled by chains, dragged by the racing heart. The soul may play the victim, sorrowful cries of pain, but the real damage was done to my brain. I'm going mad, I think, but I'm not sure.
Even in pain, my mind was never tested before. This was hard to look at, like the white glare in the lake's reflection, burning my eyes with no affection. This was the fact of life, like the passing of the night to day, the rain falling and the thunder following the flash. This was the first time in many years, that my anger actually burned my mind to ash.
And for what? Just a silly dream, that's true, a dream conjured not by me, but you. If I was to say that, would you start to feel that anger, too? How can one from the heavens understand a beast, and how can one with freedom understand the policed?
Two people and one tale, interwoven, I'd hoped, but to no avail. We often wonder about the sky we share, the feelings we can both sense in the clear open air. But we never come close to share the discoveries, always by word, for such is ease. I wished for risk, danger and nerves, but the simple thing is, it seemed not what I deserved.
I wish that I could be winged, like a brown plumbed falcon, shooting through the sky and cutting the wind. But alas, I am tethered to my own freedom that I feel, unable to share it, but I swear it is real. I wish I could show this world, what I can create, what I can represent, and my own fate, but to deaf ears it falls, and I stand here unsure among fellow fools. Could I seek my fortune away, years and years would it take, or just one single day?
How can a man know his destiny among such silly turmoil, blowing my stomach like the force of a bullet through the armour of tinfoil. No wound, but a great hole, and leaking out from it, blood of a single goal. Can I wrestle back any sense of order, any sense of control? Or am I to gush forth sentiments and make previous efforts null? Can a single man hope to accomplish dreams I have, or is it beyond me alone? Either is sad.
I cannot say I wait for another to take my glory, but I guess I cannot also say I know his story. I cannot spite a fellow person, and that can be just the thing; sometimes I resent being such; 'The wise old king'. If I was begin serious, and I assure you I am not, as a ruler, I would be lacking a lot.
I'm waiting for the sign on the horizon, the ringing bells of the church, the song of the blackbirds, on branch of silver birch. I seek the whale song, deep and lurking, descending to dark blue depths where I feel I can belong, I seek the open blue skies and the windy pathway, I seek the freedom to smile, and to laugh the day away. I wear the armour of the knight to slay myself, and the robes of the king, despite no wealth. I cannot count the times I felt such passion, but I can never say I understand why and in what fashion.
I feel it stronger than ever before, like a tidal wave, crashing onto the sandy shore. I feel it wash away the structure I had built inside, I felt it cast away the solutions I had tried. The torrent and the storm, crashing away in my chest, putting my mind under chaotic arrest. The flames burn bright, brighter than the sun, but it burns only into rage and shoots like a gun. Killed all chances, in petty defeat, I have no reason to carry on, and it feels so unspeakably bitter-sweet.
But like El Cid, and his one last charge, without my head I'm still trying hard, too hard. I feel as a fool, and I know you think I look like one too. But I care little for such silliness, and I hoped that you would see through. If it pleases you, I am finally angry, sick and tired, I am done with this job and I wish to be fired. I think that you have impressions false, kept close to mind, and I care little to show you, when you refuse to find.
I wish that you had kept dreams just that little bit closer rather than far, and I wish that I could have been more aware of what your silly friend's hopes are. It wasn't such a defined thing, not so easy to be this or that, I just wanted to be there, and that is the only true fact. If you wanted no titles, that saddens me a bit, and I cannot pretend I wasn't hurt, wasn't hit. I wished not to have a fan-fair and a coronation, no ceremony, pomp or great celebration. I simply wanted you to consider the title in spirit, I could wait, and I hoped that one day, you could see it.
I was waiting for a sign on the horizon, but one never came. I was told not to bother, not to wait, but I couldn't defy this burning, blazing vision of my fate, and I waited long, and I waited in pain, but after all is said and done, the dreams are dead, and it's now all but too late. So I cower behind fancy word and indulgent verse, seeking the comfort I never could, in a written hearse.
I seek still, I seek this world. You was my one, for a short time, girl. But no different to the lost balloon, one moment to slip away, and you was far too high for me to reach. Even so, I cannot help but to admire you, to feel your words, and love you, because to me you always will be; 'my pickled peach'.
