View from the top

changing colors
missing the beat for a pestering premonition
pulling tomorrows towards today
kneading them into a love consuming apparition
wasted efforts lie on the floor
separate, mutilate, don't conjugate
one reality with another withering truth
wish it was a thorn in your fingertip
for my karmic tweezers to uproot
or a friday night bad hairdo
for my fingers to style running through
mixed messages
in the eagle's eyes
who's yearning to flap his wings
to fly