giants will sleep in your pockets

the curtains fall like anvils, while the wig wearing aristocracy plumbs the depths of the oceans inside the halos of angels.  rise, all you overgrown children, rise up until your eyelids stand at attention.  stop thinking for a moment, get your hands out of your pockets, remove your wallets, you must make room for the giants to sleep in.  there will be no aching ribs in the morning, only messy hair and the memory of something profound, something you felt that you hadn't felt before, something important that you are frantic to remember, but can no longer grasp.  it was a floating moment, meant only for then.  but hurry now, there are children to be born in the desert, and you are the only one who can deliver them.