ENDLESS HIGHWAY/SERVANTS TO THE CLOCK

Tired and in translation, the limits of this mind are being explored. Endless highways create pleasure of the open road. Left without purpose, this existence is becoming questioned by unforeseen events. Smells and tastes from previous experiences permit these eyes to look over a crippled past. The tune is familiar and the song appears to have been written for it to stay continuous. Energy flashes like a universal hurricane, breaking down those chained thoughts. The dark beer enters this form with willing signs of intoxication. The city is half alive as the night burns through those lingering clouds and surrounds our beach that is still seen from ancient times. Lost and off track, only my personal humility can survive another dawn dressed in the influence of depression. Loud sirens crusade down streets littered with palm trees and one asks where the accident occurred. Minutes produce false hope, encouraging the propaganda that we are servants to the clock. The truth is that the propaganda is reversed and that freedom from traditional thinking is only hidden from a confused sense of view. Echoes race up towards the mountain and shatter the silence known as Makiki. Need a flight out and destined for nowhere. Alarms from stolen cars again bring rebirth to that orgy of sound, which is in its darkest hour. The fire pours out its eternal smoke into the cup of a troubled soul. Solomon’s Temple reflects modern day chaos, teaching the present that only in the past correctable answers are found. Traveling on, into the deep whisper of emptiness. Rings of commitment consume my friends mind and his decision is held tightly within the elements. What comes next? Life is zeroing down upon this tiny island and radical motions are being felt. Sand digs its way in between these toes, leaving the noticeable feeling of oneness with nature. There are no companions who have seen what I have seen, which separates an intellectual connection from a myth turned true. Lost and in a medical daze, the blood rushes into a restricted channel. I beg the morning to soon roll the dice and allow there to be another chance to collect. Honolulu tries to bury its forgotten on the sides of streets for all visitors to smile at with cameras. The ocean moves without explanation or sympathy for those who cannot enter its depth. The tide approaches our feast of the flesh as Halloween too begins revealing its hidden tricks. A New Direction is required for a man who has replaced all confidence in living with a feeling of desired sleep. Though the Renaissance age is long dead, the bright rumor of a dejavu image slipping into these ascending years could somehow allow for optimism to conquer all. Distractions from the inevitable deter the persistence of truth from releasing its poem of a failed youth. Paid by a ruined self-peace, the mind must now find a ticket to ride. The moon seems jailed and locked within a permanent choice, does it reflect light or admit to being only a dead rock? No more can be said on this dying night, so remember to adjust that spoken thought to the grip of natural light and hold securely on for that mysterious movement into the dawn.