Isis

What drives me to you is what drives me insane.
So confessed Dylan,
with Isis just through the recording studio glass,
maybe with pride in her eyes
or just watching the bow of the violin
(which was not out of place)
glide across her heart,
springing grass from the vital pump.
On the fifth day of May
the cordial sentence was struck.
There shall be no more searching:
not for the blinded rubies of the tomb,
or not for blankets, which you freely
gave away to a common stranger.
It wasn't freezing in the desert
that ripped your fingers off
the sickle that carves out May.
It wasn't when you left
to pursue the elemental
curiosity of Indiana Jones.
It was something more sad,
more real than the emperor
playing the breezy violin
until the dawn collapses.
What drove him insane,
what drives us all, is that
we ain't got no money.