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Two men stand idle with the glimmering isle called in with Dawn.
TV screens launch broadcast waves through minds feeling no present.
To walk home is to wade through ethereal tombstones marked with the past.
Two men watch serenely as life plays so clearly through the satellites,
never to move to feel the wind howling just beyond tracing fingers.

One man knows the other is hallucination.
The other man is oblivious to the real on the other side.
Two men live in crisscrossing events that never are to be.
To walk home is to be drenched with Eves recalled in stupor
and likening them to the toys that rolled under the bed years ago.

Two men live with the opposite ends of their mad machines,
as the cogwheels shift them from minute to hour.
To walk home is to ignore the shadows powering the escapement
only to hear the droning voices of footsteps misplaced in time.
Cast down the flowers and try to harbour that tortured silence.

One man is left to sleep in his grass-green sheets.
The other has yet to dream of waking.
Walking home is an insecurity all it's own
when dealing in the symptoms of lives cut short.
Listen well to those chairs when they sit unfilled and silent,
for they speak of good men who will never die.