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Ooooohooooh, Growin' up...
Sometimes, stream-of-consciousness is fun.
The sacred ceremony by the children who place one copper piece on the eyelids of the dead balloons, floating to their graves; when the bell tolls in the tones of the broken wind-chime, cans clattering across the gutter, you will know—and here lies what once was nostalgia, smoke-borne shapes shredded into ghosts by the prevailing wind.
This was to be a passage about the gates, we’ve all missed them as we slipped beneath, and looking back espied only the shadows cast which dwarf our own – the image lost in the meaning from the artist. Gates from the garden path to the house to the graveyard, lovely in the daylight, filtered light on dusty grasses and the flowers that grow between the plots and trees, gates that creak in vain to warn you of the vast impending slope you’ve been rushing down this whole time.
(it's a good song, though, you should look it up and I just made the connection!) (off of Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ)
The sacred ceremony by the children who place one copper piece on the eyelids of the dead balloons, floating to their graves; when the bell tolls in the tones of the broken wind-chime, cans clattering across the gutter, you will know—and here lies what once was nostalgia, smoke-borne shapes shredded into ghosts by the prevailing wind.
This was to be a passage about the gates, we’ve all missed them as we slipped beneath, and looking back espied only the shadows cast which dwarf our own – the image lost in the meaning from the artist. Gates from the garden path to the house to the graveyard, lovely in the daylight, filtered light on dusty grasses and the flowers that grow between the plots and trees, gates that creak in vain to warn you of the vast impending slope you’ve been rushing down this whole time.
(it's a good song, though, you should look it up and I just made the connection!) (off of Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ)