The hound dog sings the blues again
Jumping into the probability  continuum
Finding bliss or frustrated suffering
Gotta keep moving
Cutting our losses
Honoring commitment

Of winners and losers
Letting the cards fall where they may
Finding peace where we can
While the hound dog sings the blues again.

I don't write these very well,
But here it goes,
The fragility of a Sunday night,
In between talks and smiles,
Little words with big implications,
Sometimes much isnt said,
But it's always enough,
It's always tough standing outside,
Saying the good nights and safe ride,
The creeping on of tomorrow,
When yesterday went too soon,
I feel like a kid,
Who has to go to school the next day,
But instead of seeing the hallways and the homework,
I wont be seeing you,
So I hold on tight to tonight,
And tighter to the chance of seeing you again,
I look ahead not because it's easier,
Than what I've had in the past,
Or because it's softer,
It's because it's just you.
The beauty of normalcy,
Entranced by the renewed excitement,
That we have today.
Today, it was after the rushed slow down,
The lingering smell of coffee and sobriety,
Driving home, with hope driving,
Speeding through the stretched desert with windows down,
That I realized,
The slow step into infinity
Is what I've built my second chance life around,
And I get to take each one,
Holding the hand that belongs to you.
With each leg lifted,
There are a million songs sang together,
Thousands of documentaries,
Hundreds of screams from jump scares,
And tens of adorable animals,
But it all comes back to one night.
The night I met you.

She's crying over text messages,
As the pink haired ****** decides it's time,
The dope always wins,
The lady behind me has flowers,
With a note tucked,
It says,
"Dedicated to the little moments".
The former **** with crossed oot S's,
Smiles at a skinny Jew,
We do change,
Most of the time over a ride,
But usually the ride lasts the lifetime,
She's no longer crying,
Trying to be strong like her mama once told her,
When she fell,
The college kid in tucked flannel reads chapter 45,
Of a book that is blank,
The pages scream, "fill me in!"
He checks his wallet, not knowing what else,
To do,
The poet is in the front,
Or the back,
It depends on which way you're going,
He writes this little story,
Tapping a face that reflects his good,
Intentions,
He has to write the opera of souls,
Poured out,
He signs off,
Another Lightrail Tale.