I could write of the broken tables upturned, broken china
in my insides broken windows…
And I could write of a wrinkled letter
posted stabbing folded
yesteryear, holding on…
But would it serve you?
And I could write of the dirty corners
cobwebs still stuck to me
lacy white and hard to reach…
And I could write of a mixed-up morning
hands upon these shoulders
heavy, still not knowing…
Would it serve you? How could it serve you?
And in the lines I see the spiral of my trail,
and in the dark I see the pattern of a rail…
Moving, deeper, listen, slowly I fall away…
And I’d like to write of the worldly weather
clouds over these shoulders, changing getting outta myself…
And I’d like to write of all that holds you
but cannot quite see into, so come shortened parables…
I’d like to turn upon the shadows, thrust upon them candles
give 'em to the sun set down…
I’d like to learn from old volcanoes, spew what we do not need
what we do not need, what we do not…
like, to write, the silence between what I’d like and what I’m merely being…
And in the lines I see the pattern of a rail,
and in the dark I see the spiral of my trail