All our heroes faded
old machines rusted
(we ran outta timeships
baby,
left our magic in the street,
by the curb--where we once
laughed at infinity)

You think you are my muse
but it's my idea of you
that's my muse

The way I haunt myself with poetry
propelling visions into the next few
worlds,
Processing dialectics of the brains polarities

transitioning from polluted enlightened cities
to coldness of lawnmower people suburbs
and the frightened forests

Enough of living in these dark houses
My white horse is waiting
(free me Kanthaka,
free me)