sometimes i'll put on some
old blues music and just
stare out the window
stare at a harvested field
and how soon we'll have
snow
and the harsh chill of
death will enter the room
remind us all of these days
we’ve taken for granted
the faces of loved ones
we've driven into the
arms of another
the mistakes
the burdens
the endless missed chances
to become somebody other
than the nobody that greets
you in the mirror each
morning
sometimes i'll put on some
old blues music and stare
out the window
picture myself drunk, gun
in hand, kneeling down in a
harvested field and telling an
unresponsive god
i'm sorry
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