. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

My Name

Were you the ghost that jumped in front of my car last night
Shaking my old grey beard and the beads in my ears
It aint that truth be found
But that promises be kept
You mist in the shape of a specter
Playing the harmonica on the front porch
And rattling them chains

My broken heart was swept up with the moon
When the moon was thrown out
Sounds like an old lady’s short high heels on the linoleum
Opening doors and slamming cabinets
Calling my name
But my name isn’t mine anymore
Lost in the cold silence of space
Drifting eternally

It aint that truth be found
It’s that progress be made
I still think of you when everyone else is asleep
And where the wind blows
Over meadows
Over sad canyons wide
Does it blow through your hair
And when it does

Do you think of me?



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