There's a place where the middle meets the east.
Some of it is made of sand,
it's bland and you could get lost -
in the smoke, the ashes, and in the
tears of children and parents
that flood the brittle gound.
Here, it's too loud to find your way.
You hear yelling that
sounds like thunder;
thunder is lifeless, but
not as lifeless as this yelling.
Thunder is not cruel,
it can be scary but
it'll never hurt you...
Not like the comets that
shoot across the sky -
not the phenomenal ones;
the ones that are made of the same dust as us, but
the ones that boom and bang and rattle your bones.
Then some of it is made of gold.
Vanilla light fills what seems like the world.
It's on the mosaic buildings and
on the ground to lead you so
you don't get lost, and
in the sky forming constellations with the
twinkling, white stars.
The same gold is the color of their skin and eyes.
It's beauty but no one knows.
They think there's thunder here too,
and rocketing comets.
Here, there's life and
the ocean tickles your toes, and
people are smiling at the wind,
holding hands with an invisible man.
There's a place where the middle
meets the east.
I always see the golden.