William S. Jensen

I dream of days with morning dew
The sun at dawn the sky soft blue
The sidewalk still feels slightly fresh
With just before the nights dim breath
...

It seems to me that art is fake
Derived from lies and induced states
The ones whose paragons we place in glory
Are often plagued by self-consistory
...

Strike a match and light the chaff
Tune the strings and shine the brass
Heroes of the day are resting
Some forever, some yearning
...

I'm not here to hear your views
On what is what and who is who
I don't care who said what
Or what he said she said
...

When I was a boy, I could not figure out
All that was around, and what was life about
It seemed that all that was, was all that life has been
And what was still to come, was just between within
...