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There is an army of ants
circling around my bed
They want to march on my leg
and have a picnic in my head
There is a green witch in the back yard
She wears a black robe with a train
She sits on a burning chair
labeled the sacred and profane

I’m going to Los Angeles
but what’s in a name
A city in any other place
would still glow the same

There is a highway in the front yard
I hope to take it anywhere but fear
But everything I ever hated
will follow me from here

there are spies in the kitchen
There’s an emergency in the air
I’m sick of doing nothing
Doing something can’t compare

There is liberation in the water
Where gnomes and witches can never go
but they stand on the banks
and hope to pacify those who know

We’ve been laboring over language
digging beneath the crag and the moss
Waiting for the music
to convey a feeling that’s been lost
waiting for a place to break bread
while some just stood by weeping
Maybe the true remnant has been keeping watch
while the rest of us were sleeping

~wwb