The big dipper pours a mixture of sludge and hope onto the mesa
and in the glow my headlights a fox runs across the highway
I am celebrating.
When there is too much to do the night doesn’t want to go to bed
and the day comes too early.
Now, coffee in hand I sit,
watching the mountains rise into silhouette
a gentle orange to the east, slowly bleeding into what was once clear and dark.
The stars are still in the sky
and in this I find honesty
I feel it in the air, in the shuffle of dogs,
in the horse gently blowing and pacing around the bale.
And I think I’m done but then I’m not. It’s always been a shortcoming of mine.
What is it you see here in the heart of things?
I can try to tell you, but you have to imagine.
What if you aren’t who you think you are? Would you know – would you care?
There is something lost inside of me, I admit. A pain that every good artist has.
With that lost I throw myself into this cauldron of witches brew,
a mixture of everything right and wrong.
An aching in my belly assuaged by one thing only – and I pout for the life I once knew
but I yearn for the life I don’t yet know
It calls from this narrow world
and I sing - as if no one can hear.
What does life expect of me after all?
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