Happy Hour Snipets (1991-1995) Poem by Patrick Wescott

(to be read individually)

Rooftop poets dance in the rain
And hide away with quick disdain
As searchers stalk the roads
Understanding is above their heads

Dreamtime serenades
Fight hard to explain
Feelings that reality
Will give no voice

Taste the fear
Feel the pain
Rejoice in it
Let it set you free

Too many cigarettes
Too much stress
Too many margaritas
Too many senoritas
Mabe a tequila
Will help to kill the pain

Once more into the fray
Our hearts against our minds
Our bodies sit upon the shore
And watch the drift of tides

A quiet voice calls to me from an echo
The past repeats and the futures drawn
But how do I return to paradise
when it is where I stand

Crystaine bird figures,
fly on our escape.
Retreating from reality,
we take our medication

Young witches burn for truth,
that the leader hides away.
For the blood on his hands,
is only a grim reminder

The warm smooth smoke
Stabs at my lungs like a dagger
Bringing a feeling of restfulness
as it takes me closer to final darkness

The innocents have been led to war
as old men rest on their laurels
But peace returns with mutilation
as the old men pin ribbons to their chests

Escape from a lie
is slipping away on truth
And the lies grow bigger
to hide the pain

And I laughed in Death's face
for nothing could he do
Try as he might I was the one
Who skated on the edge never falling

My life is like a cigarette
discarded at night
Exploding on impact
the ambers die one by one

Take a ride to the otherside
With a one-way ticket going the wrong way
Roll the dice
Finish the game

When the mask peels from your eyes.
When the darkness turns to lies.
And the magic seems to fade away...
I AM YOU