Mountain ranges

Mourning red bay at the bridges

Stab up at the coming blue horizon

Grey slides loosely off rooftops

Lands on the Incan desert ground and dies

A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight

Bronze fist soldiers return

To watch the twilight across the faces

Skylights ignite and explode

Scattering shards of april around the room

No one even lives here

We're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house

Paving the same roads

Unwilling to walk them

And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included

In a world that's standing still

And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions

We struggle for the right to say "we improve conditions"

And so often we form communities

Only to use them as exclusionary devices

And we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief

And somewhere people are calling for teachers

And no one's answering

Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose on the door

And somewhere these people are keeping records

And writing a book

For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw Or "The Book About the Letter "N"

Or "Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have"

And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of nothing

The sounds of a vanishing alphabet

Standing here waiting...