Do you really want to spend all your days making fissures to separate yourself from the people you begged to never leave? You’ve been lurking there with status draped around your arm. The shovel strokes and your shoulders heave. Just waiting to march me down that sunken road. Oh how we swoon for your morticians charm. More and more I could care less. The pieces of a driven hand would have been of far less harm. There are some things we simply cannot save. Some things that are destined to make us grieve. But in the end, we’ll all travel lightly. All of us. Smeared down a funeral sleeve.

Speaking in splintered symphonies, your praise is poultry and we’re beginning to know the edge of all of these failed trajectories. A far sea moves in my ear and now I’m wondering. We possess and we are possessed. Haunted and haunting. We will play host to all things before and after. This I promise you. So while time languishes, let us wrap your young feet in gold, shelter delicately from the roar and smear honey down your slender bones. After all, we are wayward and may never find what they call “home” .

One good turn deserves another and this is a curtain call. Little dreamer… The peripheries await and any port will do in a storm. If you’re not the driver, how many times will you ride in the hearse? Kiss caution on his lonely lips, stick out your thumb and ask yourself “Do you really wish to spend your latter days raiding the devils purse?”