Wichita Stones

Upon the green sea, bigger and plain and up-to-someone-else's-point-of-view.

I am not safe in a corner.
I am not "green grass, touch and tell", if you ever thought I could be.

"There's many miles ahead, but have you ever stopped and looked at the desert?"
I have been asked.

From here my hands are tied, I battle those who I fear. Little Dried Wichita Stones.

Bottled Lava, the sheriff smashing up our future.
Little Dried Wichita Stones, from me and for me, inwards.

Little White Rocks, Marilyn.
But the tender future seemed long gone.

Hard to say, and hard to keep.
Part of those who lack of options, today.
So, help me see the sunrise. A quick glance.

Tomorrow is late, options that would not fit ourselves.

I know the good side of everyone else's soul, but yours.
I need a black cry that can foresee that tomorrow I am going to have my prints at my highest:

"Wichita Stones will not lie at my rocking chair, I say."