Allow me to reach into your mind at dusk time
And shoo away that horrid disastrous monstrosity
That you calmly invited in through your sighing tired eyes.
I see bags weighing you down,
and sound,
Hoping to creep slowly, getting loud.
Reaching peak decimal,
And the mess of it all,
Is so bitterly, condescendingly different than you remember.
And don’t bother,
Searching far and wide for the dead centre,
of December.
Because those memories.
I’m sorry. I brought it up again.
I’m trained
With this opinion on reality,
you see.
I wasn’t hurt as badly as I could’ve been.
I was not upset after I should have died.
And each day I’m blessed with a little glimpse of purpose.
And each day it’s torn with a backhand of reality.
And each day I look back on the days when death had its handle on me,
And I didn’t escape because of my own wants and needs,
But because, magically, something fought that tiny, lifeless shadow,
That we know today as “death”.
And maybe I’m just not afraid of the shadow.
Maybe I’m just blessing the ones around me with,
Six more weeks of this glorious winter.
Or maybe I’m winter to the touch.
And this is an iced reflection of me, not you in the slightest.
I calmly inhaled everything in through every drag,
And every shot, and through every incident and accident.
These are bags of winters snow weighing down my sighing eyes.
Alright, by now you’re wondering where I’m going,
Sewing together the line between passion and giving up,
Because I feel a shadow,
But I’m not forced into my hole,
And I don’t retract to the flattery,
And maybe it’s because you see my exposed soul,
Or you don’t mind six more weeks of winter.
But there is something about how,
You looked at me just now.
Maybe that was the small glimpse of purpose,
I needed to rehabilitate inner churches.
And maybe I just needed a little extra help with these heavy bags.
"A singer-songwriter with a devastating ear for harmonies and a delicate touch with lyrics that slide perfectly into a
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