Gnawing at flesh down to the bone

life blood extracted and dripping off fangs

elixir of sun’s vision over cloud tops

gliding over the world spinning away

Below in the emptiness one sits alone

singing sad songs to nobody

not even to himself

Just passing the time until the ground gives way

and all that’s left is a broken chord

hanging like mist above a river

a gathering of ghosts over the water

slow dancing to the songs no one can hear

heedless of the creeping oblivion

coming down the current to swallow them

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Heard Tim Buckley’s music for the first time today. Massively talented—the perfect sound to just groove to. Sad that he died so young.

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