Mountains Sliding into Fortunes

I have no synaposis


Landscapes changing into portraits of memories
Words forcing the notion of change into landscapes
Collapsing into microcosms of sarcasm, beautiful sarcasm
Trepidations of saying too much, too little or nothing at all
These are the days of madmen rushing into decisions that effect us all
At least my favorite shirt is clean and ready for comment

For what consumes this palace when the birds fly south?

Where have all of the ideas landed, why have I not seen them?

And how come each tiny little comment can end the conversation?

It seems that times are calling for remembering how to forget
As I have forgotten... others tend to constantly remind me of it all
Like hour long discussions of what might have been with people who never existed
Finally, My jacket is clean and has seen too much and now I must dispose of it's hood
For fear that it will cover my eyes when I am flying
Flying south like the birds...
Or West like my dreams
Or even North like my visions.

These mountains ahead contain the truth I have remembered to forget (long ago)
And I see no value in its landscape, portrait or theories
For I am the man in the middle, the monkey who receives no food