The Song Worth Saying

Quixoticly, my mind sometimes follows me 

Beyond the lines of highway signs and mortal life's atrocities 

Speaking not acknowledging 

A past worth honoring 

A blight to sorrowed times 

In my conscience still slowly following 

Mere existence. This repetition.. 

A value lost all to life 

Whom fail to see Worth mentioned. 

So tell me, whose truths would you consume most daily? 

Love unbound from the garden groves, or a hell that's still worth tasting? 

These shallow years they manifest in the death of a wish most wanting 

If one can't make music or live for art 

Then the shadows still worth claiming. 

No point to the pointless pointed out, 

In the points, we're painting 

Grey hues of gloom; morose, obtuse, 

For a picture made worth hanging. 

I spy, the color tides 

Changing Autumns shape-shift 

Uncertainty that serpents sleep 

Under red and black frosted leaves. 

Withering willow woeingly wrestles Summer's sting 

Further, we rush into winter now, watching dying trees. 

Ride along tail-tinted lights in the rifts of music made, 

I'd sell my soul for none I own– to sing the song worth saying.