the lost highway

Drawn in relief, the ugly machineries have shattered
Into pale representation
Humble in life, our meals were nettle soup
And our thirst met with the steam of silver kettles,
Parching and rough.
But we sang and we joked,
We lived through the open door and
Outside of all doors,
When most of the rest lived from false
Memories.

I’ll sing you a war of lovers
A simple cutlass given to him by his father
And a winchester gun that shoots flowers,
But know that the worst shots came from words barked
For the sake of luxury’s memories.

And in the mist of battle’s penance our souls lost their lover’s
daggers which adorned them like gilt upon the quickened tang
Whipped out of cracked scabbard by the old cannon fires.

Know that the seeds of dandelions grow from our bodies
After we die, that during life our house slipped in shoes like
A walking goddess dedicated to love and her forefathers.

All of our lives
Are just windows in the rain
All of our days are subtle old refrains
All of our spite,
based in love's ruined memories.