Imagination

 
There's no need for the whisky, beer
or the iron-hooks of drugs anymore.
People need sex, religion, love
or any other placebo replacements.

I take the earthset balloonride
over an empty lake with dust-pile-trees
to stand before the earth as it sinks
trying to better yesterday again.

I open my eyes. Switch the light off
and the electric-sundown is as stoic as ever
I close my eyes, and the earth grovels
past the thinnest branches of perfect trees
that maybe never were.

It's done because I can, not choose;
consent is very rarely conscious.
Only you can save you
and only if you understand that bliss
or contentment, has to die for it to exist.

No constants, no paradise or panacea,
no heaven built on atonements with wreathed lips
and forethoughts of completeness

but there's a moment,
that can linger longer than known periods of time
if you can forget yourself, remember
that your soul is a lame white horse
with hooves that never need impress skin on the wane.