He collects copies of The Watchtower
to get a feel of true America,
to spike a lonesome fever, a voice of
desperation now in the hands of fate.

And in the black tapestries of starlight,
upon smoke and abandoned birthright,
he will stumble into a walking pace,
whenever the moment has come too soon.

He writes about writing more than he writes,
delusions of tyre-swings and fallen kites,
dreams of solitaire and those black-out fields
where you started the fire, then danced within.

And in the grey misery of hindsight,
in lack of sleep and forsaken sunlight,
he will stumble upon an inner peace
for the moments that are still yet to come.

He thinks of naked women all the time,
opened boxes of wine, slave to the mind
of divided poetry, words that rhyme,
a missing person, hidden in plain sight.