On The Dying Notes of Jubilee

[James]

It lies in the slumber
Of the startling winds,
The glitches on the rim
Of the cringe in your sea
It is what hangs behind
The word of the dim
It is what hangs behind
You and me
Its The sickly dream
of the eerie hand,
The voice of the river
Smiting the dead spirit
of the dam
The summer's monotone,
The dream that we've
flown from the still air,
The smoothing whisper,
When we've borrowed
The shine from
the fleeting vines,
It grows sprouting sickles
that bask in the glow
Of all the images
Of the moments that
Reflect solemnly in the
moonlight
It molds, and ploys,
It shrieks, but it smiles,
On the corner of the frame on
Mister Aster's shelf,
Spread out on a faint like
Drip of a kind that knows
no time, it sprays
out gimmy,
Only in your eyes
When the Moon lays
to bed, Out in
The pocket of your mind
You can still see Timmy,
That, is Ghost of Faceto