This is really a b-side.
This is... It Ain't Snowing Over Seas
It ain't snowing over seas,
It's cold pink petals floating on the shore.
What's a rise and fall narrative for,
Only to miss ebb and flow behind every one?
All the while trying to figure out how to navigate
A way through this undertow state.
I'm a plan 9 survivalist.
Left with resilience to last out whatever this is.
Can't be everything it seems, immersion in a deep dream.
But then I got the feeling I'm awake and wired to a socket,
And why do I have blossom in my jacket pocket?
It ain't snowing over me,
It's cold letters settling unwritten, never sent.
The book on the shelf: poetry of Brecht,
In one of these years I'll open it up, I suspect,
When no one I trust is calling on the phone
I want all this living to leave me alone.
I'm a plan 9 spiritualist.
Left with fallow faith to grow with what I'm faced.
Demons exorcised slow notice we're the ebb and flow,
Perished, weakly moaning, they vomit stories to the floor,
Looking much like snow, floating on the shore.
