Oliver stands on the hills,
Hair and clothes wet still.
The worthless shaft and twig gripped in his hand
Or hanging loosely, plain and bland.
Gaze at the mottled,
Blue, gray crush.
Will it envelope me still?
If i ask it, will it keep me?
Sing to me
Sweet, Heavenly sounds
For you
Are the last i hear.
Caressed by a pale hand
My cheek grows numb.
Surrender to my longing
Not to long for.
I dreamed of a train today
Of how it passed beneath me.
I watched the empty tracks
And wondered for a moment.
Feel not the pain
My earthen friend
Fear not
The deadly joy
I join you later
Or not at all
Depends
On my last.
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