Somewhere
off over the hill
there's a soloist, picking my heartstrings
on a 6 string 2 string
no string guitar
Grass still dewey with the morning spittle.
Sky still grey from yesterdays sorrows.
Just another unpayed shift wasted.
Here and now, I'm forgotten.
Here and there, I'm not.
Nothing can make it right.
Nothing can make it right.
Nothing can bring me down.
Not the wildsman's arrows.
Not the way to town, just another me-
broke
down
Spinning like a single,
tucked under foot, like schrapnels of the good china.
Someone should eat off of me every day...
But that's just wishful thinking
that's just another extinguished flame.
Inhaled, but not held.
Garbage in the sink.
Blood on the floor.
Dreams in the shitpot.
Closed chapter 3.
I came
I saw
I fell
with quite the whimpering bang.
Turn the page
take your arm from your eyes,
there's grey here.
Bright, blinding, and indifferently cruel.
There's cold here, embracing, unconditional, welcoming permafrost of that freedom.
For none and all.
Everything
in nothing
Faith in nowhere
Sense in nowhy
here, when I.
What
have I?
Only...
only...
