Upon all drastic days of wavering dominion there’s always the prism to rub it all in
So vent or cough the truth from a underused, vacant telephone booth
If you are trying to make a call to a fictional savior you better show strength and you better show grace and you better show everything you got kid because you
Demanded vanishing steam and all you got was heat waves from heavily trafficked dreams
Who are you to ask for a blank page? And upon acquisition do you drop dead, do you suffocate?
Do you sink into the street waist high and sing apocalyptic songs from manholes near curbs?

Facing off against the weight of the world
To take the prism, via the blank page, stood on the curb

The clatter and clang of legacies left behind by the paper heroes who undermined the nice, the appropriate and the safe.
Though you cannot make them tangible
You can replicate with syllables the lessons that someday the world might take
Demanded flowering trees and all you got was decrepit, twisted, violent weeds
Who are you to ask for a blank page, and upon acquisition do you drop dead, do you sneak away?
Do you skip along streams hand-cuffed to the stones you threw, obsessed with some notion that they’ll never sink?

You need to think but can’t over-think
To take the prism, via the blank page, while still on the curb

You’re tidying the rooms in this perpetual, infamous queue
Begging the atoms for something to do, squeeze all mops then rinse and repeat
While the creator of scenes relaxes in ease, his conscience squeaky clean from all the mopping that you do
Demanded balanced strides and all you got were free falls from ugly angled slides
Who are you to ask for some blank page, and upon acquisition do you drop dead, do you drink and sway?
Do you tear off the labels? Cover the blue box with the printing press? Pretend that you’re not a drunk?

Your bad puns from a New Orleans bar as it sunk!
Go take the prism, via the blank page, from the curb

If you’re visiting the children in Toronto General Hospital
You may hear them singing until the bleachers are full
They’ll thank you for your attendance with their facial muscles
And by raising their heads up off their pillows

There are people who never get your chance
There’s even more that hide it behind smiles when you glance
So again I ask:

Do you sink into the streets waist high and sing, apocalyptic songs from manholes near curbs?
Do you skip along streams hand-cuffed to the stones you threw, ill advised that they’ll forever endure?

Don’t collapse under the weight of the world
And take the prism, via the page, from the curb.