Whirlwind, go ahead: tear me up.
I’m in need of a tornado
to get me to Munchkinland
or at least out of this sepia-toned life.
So, whirlwind, go ahead: slip through my fingers,
dance to the beat of your own drum, I’ll join you
daydream about the cosmos, I’ll capture the sky
live up in the clouds, I’ll learn how to pilot a jet.
I’ll surrender to the free fall.
And when you need to show off,
I’ll create museums dedicated to the colours of your peacock tail,
and when you forget how to do this emotional expression thing,
I’ll remind you with oceans and earth and fire,
and when you can’t compromise,
I’ll throw fireworks into the night,
and when promises get broken,
I’ll tie them together with neon ribbons,
and when the world gets too much,
I’ll create pillow forts to sacrifice chubby toy lambs in,
and when I see you sacrificing the shirt on your back,
I’ll buy you a new one
(and that shit will be vintage Gucci).