Passing through is all I have done, no one asked why I came.
Given reflections, diversions, constitutions of rambling rhetorical hopes of brightness and purpose. On the other side giants were knocking. Key-less and cold.
The clock strikes midnight in southern charmed homes. You can always take your shoes off, and still find that one creaking board. Family ties pull on fresh worn clothes, and wash day never comes.
Horses were running to the barn for food, and in the distance I fear the rain missed us again. Just when they searched the lake, two people walked into the police station two states over and asked ‘who are we?”
Wondering why my time is not spent on things I should be doing. Grabbing the largest box off the top shelf only leaves a larger space to fill. I think there are too many locks on your doors. Too few outstretched hands that can form a circle when joined together, and an overflowing of recoiled remission when let go.
Passing through is all I have done, no one asked why I came.
f.messina 4.10.17
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