I saw your head turned to stone.
You'd only been alive four days.
There is nothing like music for the dead
lovers who don't bother
to flatter me anymore.
I know that the ones who love me would not
waste breath on flattery.
I've been jailed for battery.
The road back to my house is made of
gravel.
The map is a scar on my kneecap.
One half of a bright red big wheel.
That is all I remember about the sky,
as it works its way into my self conscious mind.
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 3:48 PM UTC
I saw your head turned to stone.
You'd only been alive four days.
There is nothing like music for the dead
lovers who don't bother
to flatter me anymore.
I know that the ones who love me would not
waste breath on flattery.
I've been jailed for battery.
The road back to my house is made of
gravel.
The map is a scar on my kneecap.
One half of a bright red big wheel.
That is all I remember about the sky,
as it works its way into my self conscious mind.
I had just broken up with someone, when I was passing a cemetary and saw his first name and the date he died...the date we broke up. It felt in the 99 degree heat as if I'd been walking on gravel the whole way.