I’ve got three minutes to write this
Told myself I’d be to bed by a certain time
Watched the stars and shadows long enough
With no changes I held to the night
Sleep seems like the only qualm
Missing the seconds of silence
Verses missing the moments of loud happiness
Flip of the coin
Broken glass outside
Settle down inside with mason jars
Should probably go to bed now
There’s nothing I’m going to miss
Except a couple of
hours of isolation
There’s no sea to listen too
There’s no language to understand
Just myself and a glass of vodka
The ice melting and my time slipping
Towards the next day of routine
Conceding in the battle of youthful memories
The many times I heard this song
The outer window I glared out
Seeing the light and figures pass
Relaxing to the smoke dwellings
Of a room filled with ghostly chalk
Lighting strikes and portals
A bar waiting to be opened
Guffaws of symbolism
A joke, whiskey lead, of purposeless numbers
I gathered in those days a source
A drive on the interstate for forty miles
A turn around, better judgment, realize
The tune is over.
