North of Texas, passing a statue, whose name was indistinguishable to me, it was covered in ivy, your eyelids shut, so you didn't see, you said "I'm not sleeping", turned your back to the sun, later on we stopped for fresh donuts, stole plums from a nearby farm.
Had coffee with breakfast, toasted to brother Matthew, at the next exit you professed a fleeting terror, of the open road, living my life in boxcars, possessed by a series of coupons. Led out west where I made my bed, coalesced by fury and anguish, instead I'll stay in Maine. Breaking bread rewriting my first name. Gone with misspellings, oracles who've preordained.
Stars didn't come fast enough, we were already looking up when, cars drove by mistaken for flashes, anything in motion should be stuck in molasses, tipped the cup then cleaned the spill, through the open window a mild chill, a moth flew in with the weight of an omen, I feel like an old man but I'm grateful you've chosen, a life of suspicion and one of superstition, where ghosts are real and demons too, and spirits buzz and hum all along the Danube.
A dude who makes tunes and writes things sometimes, follow me on the grum for song posts and letterboxd for movie thoughts. Also comprises one half of Ishroyale.
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