an editorial by Brian Morrisey
You say you want to mark your dreams on a whim sent from god so bad that the only man left walking through the gates of heaven is a life taken from divine creative endeavors, but when the pedestal collapses from the laws of gravity giving way to the weight braced below your feet by strength in numbers, remember the graceful hands blessed upon you who lost their grip.
In words, you define your state of being now served with a dollar in hand and love beneath your step, ingrained into the concrete under your foot, fallen from worn the shirt upon your back. you have learned how to eat your cake with kings and queens of Pleasantville at home in the distant state of utopia off the map of the land we once roamed together. Words traded for dollars, thoughts of cents, and still no sense that I am here now.
You have opened the doors and run through all of the corridors I have just begun to walk. You have swum through the chilling waters that are numbing my ankles right now. The fog rising off the coast is getting thicker, the visions of you taken from afar are unclear and I cannot pay the royalties to charter the vessel needed to find you. If I scream, will you hear my name?
All becomes lost in remembrance when angels revisit temptation to lift your soul to the higher power we have ever so envisioned carried in the tune from harps stroking the chords to a melody in the chorus sung by the chosen ones, but the only measure heard from down below is refrain… refrain… refrain…