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This bay is interrupted (like a young girls daydream is interrupted by her father's angry call) By the highway that runs through it and the pulp mill that spits into it I am flying over asphalt perched on two wheels the sky tears up but wants to bawl wind and rain in my face with the stain of yesterdays workday making me dread todays dead opossums and raccoons and foxes strewn all over the shoulder I float by without surprise I've come to expect neglect and decay I stare at the quiet spectacle of entrails pushed out and bubbling in the rainbow colored puddles of roadside rain the remarkable thumbs of opossums the fire-like fur of the foxes but I gotta stop it and get on to work I'm gonna be late the rain is interrupted from it's simple communion with the soil by the asphalt and the concrete all those plains of black and gray where the brown and green ones used to be I stare through a glass pane once I'm at that dry din of my dreaded workday the rain seems resigned to just flowing down their drains I'm afraid that's how I've become you're not paid to daydream I hear someone say Letras de canciones Our lives are interrupted like all those daydreams were as far back as I can recall from the moment we're born we're in custody sterile hospitals bright lights needles vaccines sterile schools white bread force fed whitewashed history dirty jobs either starve or accept wage slavery but there's freedom in our visceral history and it bubbles up like the lava of an ancient memory I stare at the skyline there's billboards where trees were there's warehouses where homes were there's rivers and understanding run dry I'd sure like to set fire to some of it and holler in the glow of it and make the ghosts of our hope come alive if not hiding from our own fear we'd find the spirit the guts and the time to tell each mumbling shadow and each idle arrow that the future's not written yet tell each dream invader and every nay sayer that we were not finished yet excuse me I was talking or living or dreaming or just being too bright for the gray malaise of these modern days to each interruption we'd answer with eruptions of the lava that bubbles underneath the mundane From Letras Mania