confession down the ladder

and so thought, might have been bringing back old nights or sending them sending us it all of you back across the wave that never rolled we could glimse your old fate, line faces up with cast iron guitar riffs (got caught killing a camera and such) tell stories you wrote int he rain poems spoken through mudd fingers hands across a body your eyes are coming between us your lies are coming between us but not so much as- you could have wanted old more memories or lost went clear through frames of vision you sold palaces in the mind oh your fingertips carve free canyons hopefully new wind your coming low and out pages wet lean hopeful in a breeze one two a hundred more ways or days you close out the DOW with great goblin smiles close up shop keep window treatements for the blind and all your agonies are done out in hand signs and afraid of being wrong is such a long day isn't it?

2003-12-23 | 11:20 a.m.
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