Observe The Grain

It is the women that build the men,

Playing 'mother,'

Then later tear them down as good for nothing beasts,

(Brutes) only out to bight them...

I'm in a dream where I do not know my son in a class full of laughing children,

Tiny happy faces that do not seem of sex obsessed with right hood,

Where the music makes sense and the moving pictures are cool silent.

When I used to write from the heart,

Befriend the wild words then later seize the mind and clean the spaces in between them,

Groom the silence to be resplendent where the music will take birth,

Only to remind them that they are solely men and women in that silence,

Remind them that only the music makes sense...

Since it is the men that build the women,

Playing 'father,'

Then later tear them down as good for nothing beasts,

(Coots) only out to cut them...

Wide open from the heart and then write them out in parts,

To fill the room with laughing children in a class,

The dream where I

(Will not/ cannot)?

Find my son and know him.