sandra, darling.
you're a vacant house
you're a purring creaky floor, quivering
under my searching foot
this flimsy flashlight leading me
as i charge further into
the lowly lit caverns
and further down
to the shivering warmth
in the back of these
smoke filled
hotel rooms

sandra, darling.
you're a midnight meadow
you're a great escaping sound, flickering
under the persuasion of the wind
sinking silver shears
cut gleams into eyes
but this has never been explained.
why are we holding hands
if just to keep me grounded?

i was just visiting
you and this town
sandra, darling.
its morning
and i am leaving now.

sandra, darling.
you're a unique and special snowflake
but i dont fear these
southern blizzards
or the flurry of rhetorical sound
enough to stay for breakfast
enough to stick around.