Mama I've done wrong
Did it again
Swallowed the red sun and burnt my tongue
Now I talk in caustic prose
As I watch precious friends erode into stories that were once told
Missing the elastic howls that died in the sweet summer time,
our mellow procrastination that became an erratic fascination,
hopeless meandering in the forest grove
where we found Cherub rock and communicated in implicit thoughts
Merely stowed memories in a paper boat
Drifting towards a somber moat
formed from the friction of  splintered convictions

The chords of thunder roar
Black clouds of war wash ashore
It's time to fall on my own sword