Tiny Streams

Morning sun begins the day
 Mothers child has gone away
 Locked inside the game that they taught him all to play
 Closet city sleeping pretty tired from the day
 And if he leaves the tiny porch light dim
 He'll keep the dogs at bay
 Snotty little brat he plays
 Never puts his toys away
 Breaks the ones he's used if they don't sparkle anymore
 Dollies in the playhouse kissing
 All their little heads are missing
 Chop their tiny hands with this thing
 That's what daddy bought them for
 Red and white's turned blue today
 I laught to dry the tear away
 Sitting in my ceilings face
 This boiling rainbow webbing places
 Smiles soft anger feeling shapes
 Of mouths and hands in sonic scapes
 Fingers spanning psychic burning
 Black sabbath record turning
 Pools of vision, understanding
 Forms absorb to keep from laughing
 Climb the walls, half inside them
 Other side, air is thin there
 Friends inside pull me to them
 Cannot keep from laughing, laughing
 Ripples from the portholes making contact
 Center bending circles
 Growing echoes of each other
 Float reflections of this covered consciousness
 Inside this eggshell
 Masterpieces scattered not well spoken
 Yet still undertaken
 Tiny streams of orchestration
 Flow into this fisheye car ride
 Leaning close to catch his good side
 Tiny streams of orchestration