You look around at the forces surrounding me,
and astoundingly,
you ask, what you can do to help.
I share with you the churning of my mind's thoughts,
and the yearnings of the lives crossed,
looking to come back, just once more.
To say what time has taken away from them,
Short decisions with even shorter roads,
put them in the farthest cornfields with the longest choices.
I speak to them in my sleep, I say...
Why do you look towards the end of things,
like the leaves falling, not the opposite,
and why are you sinking...
waves like show curtains,
moving you back and away,
ending this charade of a Sunday afternoon.
Keeping yourself where I can see you,
but not where my feet will meet you.
Burn the shape of my glasses to your chest so you can always look at me,
and what I used to make you see.
Look hard heralded son, 'cus you can't quite get what the latter ones run,
and you can't quite sit where someone is already sitting,
and this is how it ends.
Brakes. And a car door, wide open;
arcing out like a wave, sweeping you back.
early november ground frost,
replaced by memorial,
and Souls lost.
