contemplate ballstic skies
The lights of Seabrook folding inward
The Atlantic shaking like the forth of July
I swore to God I heard Him speaking
through the static of charred goodbyes
And floating thoughts in rivers tweaking
Sentences composed while high
I chase the sound of sterile beacons
memories of winter sighs
the ache of longing still was sweet then
now it sags like tired thighs
church roof eaves leave bevels bleak with
snow lashed to the tips of eyes
apartments old enough to think in
residue of cleaner times
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