paper...stone...

the cruelty of the situation was simple as it was blunt.
there was a million miles between them.
dull as a stone washed up on a beach of sharp shingle.
yet the stars don't have fingers long enough to reach.
even the dreamer, with his folded page of crap verse can smell paint.
some distances are greater than miles.
some.
but we all hang onto that fading shape don't we?
shadow plays from light given over to hope.
futile.
youth can bounce balls higher than the moon.
i can draw shapes with a pencil.
circles and squares.
but the ebb and flow of days lets nothing last like the curse of words.

.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.