Not Being Here
On a Thursday, I was lost in
bar chord bash, rushing through
clock spit with you;
I had a lost head them, a
pendulum bolt from fast to
slow, running down hours.
In the ticking, I heard causes
once sacred, hearts aflame
I could not hope to cross
Again through this quilt stitched
of broken glass, memorial wheels,
in the same fashion as before
When worse my speech, but
better the laughter.
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