Yesterday,
I patterned myself a savior
One who was stitched up tightly,
In the shadowy form of a simple man

A man who,
For all intents and purposes
Bled out when the town did,
Some-sixty-odd seasons ago

I am incapable,
Incapable because my empty hands
No longer reach for a hammers,
Now they only reach for nails

Today,
Rubber burns like embers in the night
Filling the lonely air
Which, in return, fills my fading lungs

Spurned by the asphalt,
I sit behind the steering wheel
And turn my car around,
Without actually turning myself

So, I shake my head,
Tired, of endless parades
Tired, of the volume of silence
Tired, of staring at an empty canvas

Tomorrow,
I will close my eyes for once
And sketch daydreams forgotten
Buried beneath the sands of time