A burning map, or maybe not,
Just smoking 'round the edges.
I want to understand it all,
But still, there's beauty in the mystery
Of Technicolor curving symbols swirling languidly
About the page, about my mind—
A sort of existential thrill
Of things too big and small at once,
Describing everything, meaning nothing.

Leave me to my memories,
This cloak of rainbow skies and coconuts
And singing island birds, papers stirred by balmy breezes,
Soaring to the sun, and dropping down among the waves,
So many broken dreams and shattered mirrors,
Seven years' bad luck among the windswept shoals
Bringing ill to all they touch.

Bring me back the old, where life made sense
And everything was understood,
So dull and unadorned on ice-white paper between the thin blue lines,
My little robot wind-up world.
Bigger may better and better may be right,
But bright new denim doesn't always fit,
So leave the faded blue jeans on the floor
And take away your tear-drop offerings of brave new worlds;
Leave me here among the ashes and the smoke
And the bloody gold of fading stars,
Just to sunbathe for a while in the dying of the light.

I don't want to melt the clocks for long,
Just a heartbeat of the way things were,
A fragment of a tarnished memory,
To rub the silver glow back into life
And say 'see, all that glitters'
Before returning to the world of shifting sands and stormy seas
To put the pieces back together,
Make the mirror, take the curse,
A blessing down upon the little fishes,
And put the burning parchment out with deep blue ocean swells.