Walking through the pages of an empty notebook,
the surprises are few and far between.
Listening to the honks on Market Street and
I remember when life was like back in 2009.

The room was spinning around and
liquor bottles hung from the ceiling.
The hideous growl of a thousand broken promises.
Chasing after a drunk ghost,
through a maze of street signs and snowflakes.

The night sky sends down shadow monsters,
destined to return your soul.
I refuse to accept that this is reality.
My creative spirit has fallen into discontent.
Oh Lord,
please save me from these bright lights.

I am going down 157.
Waiting for the clock to strike
any hour it pleases.
Listening to the broken trees whisper their anger.
Splintered from the weight of the crows,
they fall.
This will not end well.
The problem with every story is that there is a beginning and
an end.  

Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
my last confession was...
when the Crown Royal was still a peasant.
The victory seemed like a defeat and
the birds flew south for the winter.

Do not be afraid.

This story ends with structure, responsibility, and order.
The trees have regrown,
hiding my secrets.
My mind begins to wonder.
Everything begins to swerve.
Is this what happens
when good men do nothing?
Or when bad men fly?