wind plows
when the season draws to a close
remembering and
fingering the grooves
shooting the dark skies with old wounds
(oh, stop!)
time, after all, is the bearer of
all fucked up things old and new
but
i have seen runaway trains
sugar high
stark naked and raving mad
acting at a distance entangled
with things clever and sad
(not, again!)
my generation has yet to
produce its best and brightest
and might i suggest also
the most fucked up
not that we needed any more of
those
(amen!)
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