Tell me the story of the man
who kissed the moon,
the woman who holds up the sky.
Unless, I have asked too soon,
you think I might be high.
Though I have spent little time in bars,
I have spent far too much in cars.
Still, I always knew I could
not escape violence or death,
from my very first breath.
The rope is knotted much too tight.
We will never get it loose tonight.
The musicians tune,
prepare to play,
while I write feverously,
unsure if this is wrong or right
or who might ever see.
Notes flow through me,
all around me, fill my head,
in ways I did not, could
not understand, when younger
or, at least, different instead.
I have never lost my dreams,
though some of them have dulled,
like brass doorknockers
from the junkman culled.
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