Your church on my bonfire.
The basilica we've built, like all of them, is rooted with guilt.
The sun on your face through the window of some god-awful place.
My head in my hands.
No life. No money. No plans.
If the plane goes down gracefully, we'll see more than we'd bartered to see.
Waiting is so hard to do when you wait in the wrong place looking for truths.
The game is tied.
The mate is stale.
You make the call then you make bail.
Hairs are stood and the tears are drawn.
Licking my wounds like some injured fawn.
Leaving is so hard to do when I know I won't be leaving with you.
The sore stomach still rots me out.
They've looked so hard and they don't know what I'm talking about. Seafoam and lilac lilies brood.
Culture forever but not my youth.
Fingers burned down to the bone.
A skeletal hand gripping not much more than a plan.
Pictured of people that I used to know are all that I have left to show.
