Flying Past Mountains

The taste was sour in my mouth
As I dreamed up another consequence
Conniving in the current of the river
My shirt of steel rebounding all the knives
I threw at myself unknowing

The quality of a late summer's day
In a country I didn't know
In a chair flying past mountains
Clouds cushioned and cradled my passing

All the images stored in the ceiling
Was it outside or inside
And did it matter?

The chronicles of a cavalier
Who knew no way to retreat
Who could not, should not change
Just to be more interesting
To a crowd collected by the way
Of sidewalks marching never stop

There's always a stream of being
As I gazed upon the bejeweled object
Of a fanciful and a courageous hour