Just a pair of knuckles—falling into place—destined before
birth; smoky blues, evening cigarettes, trying one’s damndest. “They,” seems
like a copout, too close is made vulnerable, up early. Used to! Running like a
madman, nearly imbalanced, seeking upper skies. A little to pavement, he’ll
never breathe again, over a dozen at his funeral. We live shocked, anger
building, suffering from high tension. Trying to adore a riddle, asking
pertinent questions, seeming overfamiliar. Turning heads, we know routine,
amazed upon a glance. Before sunrise. Days were mastered. Enthused to make it.
To see where it doesn’t matter, souls throwing in a towel, prepared to perish.
Maybe one loves more, swerving at 2 AM, each block filled with music; bottles
spinning, moving into character, too many falling. Damned either way. Skin
testifying to freedom. It meant so much!
