Sitting here on this mountaintop porch,
Staring out into the valley lit by moon and stars,
Johnny Cash can be heard riding a locomotive of Nashville acoustics.

The Valley looks like it belongs on an alien world,
Bathed in blues, greys, and blacks,
Unique to these southern nights,
Upon vast forests that are both awake and alive.

Cash sings of retribution and redemption,
Upon the coming of the end,
A tune too sad for such a beautiful scene,
The song is changed

Cronin and Richrath accompany me on this trip,
Driving down this stretch of 75,
Driving amongst the clouds and mountains of the Blue Ridge,
Giving off a soft yet intense tune.

The sun has just set,
Giving the sky a odd dark hue,
The rumbling of the jeep is a constant,
Sounds from the old engine almost giving the song certain cues.

The wind ripping through the open cabin,
Tearing at clothes and hair,
The howling it gives off,
Fails to drown out Cronin's cries,
Of his personal philosophy he sings.

Better the brutal truth than a shocking revelation of betrayal,
Hands gripping the steering wheel tighter,
Driving to destiny,
A better future awaits.

Driving to destiny

Looking at the fully filled in page,
A good poem,
Sure to trend within minutes.
It just feels right.

A pause,
A half smile,
As the small X on the upper right hand of the window is clicked,
And the profile page is brought back up once again.

Creed Bratton strumming along,
Singing the oral history of his hometown,
The place from which he departed to embark on his great adventure.

I sit here in the dining room,
Looking contempitave at near empty pack,
A lone cigarette lays a little worn,
The last defender in it's paperboard Alamo,
I ponder at it for a moment before lighting up.

The guitar resembling the chugging of a train,
Rumbling down Californian rails.

Even the time changed resembles the screeching of brakes upon those rails,
Upon those iron horses,
Before chuggin' along once again,
Tempo and mood increasing once again,
Before passing by and roars to the horizon,
Chasing the setting sun,
It's sounds disappearing eventually into the passing wind.

Pain ignites,
Your shoulders and biceps set ablaze to to the beat,
To this resurrected tune from the plantations of long ago,
A specter that hangs over the shoulder  when heard.

Up,
Down,
Hold that ****,
And you start to think this Sally chick might just be a real cold *****.

Up,
Down,
Rinse and repeat the pain.

It's just 30 reps,
Why is it so infernally difficult?
Up,
Down,
Hold,
The pressure builds in your muscles and your brain,
Pratcher & the Gardeners heedless of your pain.

The last chorus,
Just a little bit more,
Is it just you or is the music slowing?

The women are weeping,
At the poor departure of poor ol' Luxe.

The song cuts,
You sigh in relief,
As your body crumples on its own accord,
Sick of your efforts and insanity.

I see you all,
You night owls,
Perched up high in your trees,
Wide awake in the darkest of hours,
Hunting for the words that hasten the dawn and sleep,
For the words that will set you free.

Townsend and Daltry are the ones putting me in a trance tonight,
Sending me to a time of excess and glory,
To reflect on a personal fight,
A battle against one's own mind,
One that will undoubtely be gory.

The first two minutes are void of voice,
The mixture of keyboard, synth and guitar too pure,
To me it seems like the perfect choice,
To express the feelings of one's own self-destruction,
As something without a cure.

False fronts are raised,
A gilded shell to all those to see,
To cover the corrupted and depraved,
To hide away guilt and shame,
Buried deep down,
Then Townsend lets it rip.

Its all just a great misdirection,
The perfect lie to distract and deceive,
Smoke and mirrors to lead you away from the lows achieved,
All in the name of dark recreation.

Inhaling,
The unfiltered cigarette' s tip glows bright,
Adrenaline is released and insulin is suppressed,
Yet the words continue yet.

A certain brand of funk pours from the speakers,
Setting the air alight with 80's vibe.

They call to you now,
The addiction and excess,
For you've tasted from the apple,
And now the hooks have sunk in.

But rip through the straps you must,
Put on a smile for all to see,
You mustn't show weakness now,
For all the others must see you as free.

The guitar is haunting,
The drumming sublime,
The bass setting an ominous tone for this tune,
Like Damocles's sword set above your head,
The slightest slip will cause everything to be hewn.