Waiting somewhere in the wings are things we
never talk about,
walk out on,
things that don't sit comfortably,
helplessly but not hopelessly we
move along the lines of life where fate or
indeed, fates wife can comfort us,
we look to futures not yet set but
can't see them,
yet we look ahead.

Blue eyes turn red,
was it something that someone said?
someone in the wings being fed your
own ammunition?

And over,
over yonder hills after
twenty seven thousand pills and countless
shots of rotgut gin and years of counting
mounting minutes or the treading of the mill,
there's still someone waiting in the wings
or something someone never brings,
and somewhere I never talk about
I keep on walking out.