Shell of a man
You could hold hands, with a shell of a man The shell of a man who didn't know what a shell was. A man who knew only what he feared, not what he wanted, or would work for, or try for. And now he's perched on a comfortable cliff, a familiar precipice, a landing for the times. And he has it all, the things one should have. Your face is but a distant cloud, floating above miles and miles of cactus filled land. Hunting endlessly for the spark of electric from your fingertips, and like fireworks we ascend the plains. We could skydive somewhere new, falling gently, parachuting down from the Earth. I've been watching here, from this precipice. Because all that rises must fall, all that begins with euphoria, surely must arrive at despair. I could shoot your pool, darling, exasperated. Wherever I land, there may be conversation about starting, ending, tales and stories. It's all so incompatible with experience. For I might jump from this place, with dusty wings and ru