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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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