Old and Tattered.
Stuck cold.
Like the vicious snot in my throat.
Nestled platoon of dew.
Molding the tunnel.
Configurated Japanese combatants.
Planted in the deepest of the deepest.
Halls.
The twitching of subtle brasses.
Lightly hugged by breeze.
It's nice up here.
Balance in intimacy.
Of such is feared.
Too young of Neil to use such diction to describe such another half.
For only fiction can thread through these lines.
As intimacy is scarce in the lands I walk.
The melody sits sweetly.
Like a whisper.
So clear like a resting lake.
So pure As the calm eyes that appear from the tree line and sing into the soul.
Standing here all alone.
The lingering glow of something that was.
Into something that wasn't.
Or something that never was.
Gentle like the strings "Down by the river".
An acoustic outcast to live for.
Burnout in a sanctum covered pine trees.
Cinnamon water, and blueberries.
Folded cough drop wrappers to be used as cigarettes.
Woolen blankets.
Mirror.
Year long beard.
Three year hair to the shoulders.
Garrett Johnson.
Tim Buckley road trip.
