Born into dustclouds & small towns,
their leaves were of branches too short
to hang innocence like guilty men
tied to predilection, trying to find
solid ground in an open sore dirtmound.
Every tree was cut from the waist down,
saw its limbs pull feathers from a flock
of mourning doves, casting hope
into darkness like shadow play
and this town was built by stagehands.
Where the workhorses are namebranded,
twin-sized giants fight over top-bunks
in a ghost-town of unrest & fractured dreams.
If only they had rode out into
the sunset before the dead were beaten to life,
this horse may have known freedom.
They saw it in each other's eyes;
their cataracts were of the different sort,
knew it wasn't long before this was
the rest of their life -
pipedreams and cornfields
becoming success stories
and epitaphs for kids to throw rocks at.
She bit the apple furthest from the tree,
said if you never remember me, love
It'll be easier for me too. We'll end up
sitting on these roots older than habit
beneath the shadow of ritual
until we're buried under sentiment,
cheeks turned to the cold side of pillows.
I don't want no bed of roses.
The factory churned out a song for them,
town-folk lifted their faces to a horizon
that always sat quietly behind
the outskirts of imagination,
before going back to watching feet
while the cedars with their backs to it all
counted the last remaining seeds.
replied to Sharp's and god knows who else, but I'll get links.
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