I stand before me as a golden child,
born in the right place at the right time and
ignorant of my birthright
but always prescient of my life's crimes

i came up out of doors
with a front lawn as my frame of reference,
and from that grassy knoll i knew a world
i could encompass at my preference.

so then how did it come to be that I missed a moving train,
skipped a track or two and spun my view
till the window was my frame?

It's a function of my methods.

you see I was a golden child, and i was given a rock to roll on,
but the first time i fell i decided i'd play the center like a proton,
so the world rolled on but i kept in a stationary position
and figured when the time was right i'd figure it out
and then make my grand transition

but, for those considering,
this might be not a safe proposition
like a fool i squandered my gifts until
the sun was damn near in remission.
and i'm sitting here in decomposition wondering...

how?

how did it come to be that i missed a moving train,
skipped a track or two and spun my view
till the window was my frame.
the same window i used to view from the front lawn of my glory days
became my frame of reference with just a simple twist of phrase
and i went from liquid to solid in what seemed a trivial shift of phase.

i mean, just for reference, i didn't think that self-imposed sentence
was a passage to where the end is.
i knew it was just a distraction like an endless round of tetris,
but it's hard to not be distracted by mindless, repetitive methods.
so i played that path close in what amounted to a game,
and by the time i stopped to look i realized
the window was now my frame.

and i'm looking out this window,
with its four bars crossed like a coin toss,
glimpses of my own face reflected in its polished gloss
running circles around a track of thoughts like,
"what kind of knife could i use to cut this loss?"
when i realize...

...i haven't been as sedentary as i suspected
there's a skill to waiting i find i've damn near perfected
and while those around me test tongue-tied convictions
i've been scripting tongue twisters just to upkeep my diction
cause...you can't start moving without at least a little bit of friction..

so i figure the best thing for me to do is:
tonight i'll light up and ink an epigraph
an ode to recycled words and explosive laughs -
the very things that cradle me from the present to the past.
and once my passage through time is thus secured
i'll dedicate a split second to considering the direction in which I'm lured
but ultimately, i'll just have to trust...

...i'll have to trust, because the future comes up from behind you.
trying to plan a path is like hoping that death won't find you.
and if there's one piece of reality i really don't need anymore reinforced,
it's that things will find their way,
and the way of things will find its course.

so...
what ever happened to my prison bars /slash/ window panes?
they went the way of measured breathing and birthing pains -
to a space in the past where events lie like grains of sand,
waiting for rebirth along the path of a master plan,

and somewhere along my convoluted path to salvation,
i dropped a spliff and the fucking walls burned to the ground.
and i stood and i watched, and i didn't notice till the charred wood turned white
that no one came to put out the flames.
and no one came to rebuild that house.

and i walked free.