the absence of life and the beauty it holds
it was the sort of night air where I could drive forever on west central,
every song on the radio lifted me off the seat of broken springs and lost hope.
it was the sort of nostalgic air where I retraced every step I made,
a seven year old walking in the shoes of a man not yet succumbed.
an unscripted pandemic of the mind plagues the adobe walls of her womb,
one foot in the grave and the other welded to the gas pedal with bloodshot eyes.
we don’t ever know we’re in an era ‘til it’s long gone well beyond the grasp of regret,
half the town hell bent on rememberin’ and the other half hell bent on forgettin.’
it was the sort of night air where I could go back to the night we met,
summoned by a force to find the depths of annihilation through melded existence.
stringer
