20 March 2015

Mojo Risin...


Always a word man never a bird man,
he wrote.
He was haunted by his sights,
Indians scattered on dawns highway bleeding.

He was young and witnessed death,
the dieing Indians last breath.
It was his frail egg shell mind, he left behind, haunted.
But words replaced memories and feelings, and Doors opened from floors to ceilings.

Seize the day, the days divinity, and freeze the way the dsys dig into me.
I'll rise like Mojo,
and choose where I go,
I'll go my way,
not dawns highway.

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