Clown Vapour

Maybe its cold in the ember's heart... maybe a snowflake has a soul but we're born to label everything as "this" or "that". A pack of pill worshiping ogres, must get to the front of the liners. Microwaving dreams before they arrive... dinner served hot on the outside cold in the middle(sound familiar?) We think we've discovered every color- every emotion undressed-audience of one That we're better than a snail, a bowl of apples or prosthetic star, but we really have less depth than a primate nest- or spider web. We're not really anchored to anybody or anything... depite the poppers and confetti, the skyscrapers and relativity. We're only good at watching our neighbors... being alone within our alone(like clown vapour). Maybe god is'nt above or below, or great afterall. maybe he's a novice at creatiing happiness, always a work in progress (like a juvenile **** star). Maybe god is a rusty pop tab a subterranean windchime maybe god isn't anything, maybe god is adrift in our hopeless dream. Maybe its cold in the ember's heart... maybe a snowflake has a soul?