In my yesteryears

this was my holiday

 a carnival and explosions

on the ground

and in the sky

late nights

and experimental

adolescence

and the last year

change

we become estranged

in a graveyard were

we once wathed fire work

and we are all so distant

and alien

to oursleves and everything

the crows sing in the oak trees

and we are drunk off alcohol

instead of fireworks

the paths sing like promise

in or protests

each individual

planting hydroponic roots

in Rastafarian dreams

and Bodhisattva manfestations

ad we are pawns unto our selves

selling short

the promise

of a sophisicated sundicate

all the best thinkers

are lost on head stones

and in books

being interpreted

by twenty first century

philistine pseudo intellects

mutter words unintelligible

be unforgetable

in every way

like getting

socked in the face

at car crash speeds

the pallet of colors

amidst brilliant mistakes

and I take all this with me

like a raffle tickett

that I never confirmed

the results of

but I might have been

the grand prize winner.