I weather the clock-- the rain falls down, I'm the light left on. Burning out a real place in real time. The door is locked, the table's set with bitter draughts and worn regrets, smoothed by my touch over time. I spit fire, I eat crow, my words come back and I let them go. Sometimes it's only a song line by line. My cup is empty, my hands are full, autumn finally knocks the cobwebs off my concerns. The dry bed of dust turns to mud over time. The wings spread and lightning fills the sky.
The stars are sleeping in our graves, millions of years until our last mistakes arrive in the here and now to fill the night. The clouds all gather and abide by these odd fluidics of rising tides, the weather bends, we bow our heads as the wind slips by. The heavens stir, the storm relents, I spit ink and sacraments. The spell caught in my throat cut my breath and changed my tune. Now I am only that song sometimes. My hands fold when the beat's so bad but the bar's on time.
The streets are swept by wind and leaf, smoke trailing each sudden gust. Tires whisper, losing their grip on the real. Tensions waver and transitions occur. My skin is the stuff of ghosts and hauntings, the unrelenting sadness of a hopelessness that endures beyond all else. A single voice never meant for speaking. The windows rattle with some borrowed bass. Another time for another thunder. Another dawn comes wandering through these streets, and I am wide awake and restless. Burning long and low, out here as lonely as a star.
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