The words won’t do, and the day grows dark. The words won’t do, and the rain falls down. We wait for a signal, we look for a sign, we smoke em if we got em. It doesn’t make a difference, it doesn’t work out alright. Every day the awful grows, misplaced and utterly unnecessary. Every day the end won’t come. Just words to spit and swallow, words to breathe and burn. It’s no wonder that I never learn.
Night arrives with all the fixings, rain and dread and sorrow filling the streets and gutters, hard cold truths sharp in the heart. The cacophony of this outbreak county, the lows where it goes, reckless and arrogant as we call down false gods and nameless horrors. This sickness knotted in my nerves and braided like blossoms through my guts. Blood burning hot or drowned man cold, the wheel spinning and spattering mud across my countenance. No one to speak of, just the sound the shell makes when exposed to sound and light.
There are the blanks that don’t need filling, the words no one needs to hear. There is the hole that runs through the being, the artifice around the entity and the insistence of the animal. The smoke that rises slow. There is the incessant expression of the unwanted, the bad brain and poor form, the boulder born uphill each day. The body goes to seed, meat to feed, mind to fade. Only this voice, scarcely heard and seldom welcomed, that carries on. Wants and wishes and a sink thick with dishes. Left out of the loop and unloved, beset by the garish bump and grind of this tattered night. The uselessness of saying what everyone already knows my legacy.