Out of the midwest he came, like a moth to the flame,
And like rains on the plain, his Citizen Kane,
Flushed the old down the drain, starting a new strain,
Etching his name in Hollywood’s fame.
And they adored him; they’d reward him,
But often times bored him
When setting their sails on rickety rails,
Or casting spells, or spinning tales
Of all’s well that Orson Welles.

pennys fallen through the floor
like ghosts that slip like whispers
through the doors

storms of soot beneath
thoughts that climb
and linger

the score
keeps
unwinding

the stair case
minding
shadows
and sharp
eccentric gleams

like electric loans
flourescent scenes
rust and ashs
in a tray

your voice still
echoes
and off the history
of parting stays

a lullabye
of sobs come
nightfall

Hiding in the shadows
creeping through the dark,
meeting in the moonlight
far away from human's mark.

The world further opposed
heartless towards our love.
The forest, a silent promise,
a closet, for emotions inside.

The wind mirrors each kiss.
As each chill embraces our skin,
the fever ignites within.

Moonlit glances of love,
lips soft to each touch.
Night guides love-ridden hands
she understands.

What if every now and then
within the stream of time
a temporary eddy formed
and a few temporal gallons
flowed back?

But for just a very few
people and/or years
what if one of them were me
or....you
what could I do?

I guess I could warn Kennedy(s)
John Lennon, maybe King
But why would they listen to ME
a single ordinary man?

Maybe I could find my younger self
in nineteen seventy three
and even prove that I am he
perhaps the young I would heed me