Iâve always felt that lifeâs a sinkhole
swallowing each day I get to give.
But the older I get the more it feels like the American west.
Something empty and clean, new as an egg.
Now filled with great mountainous things
that Iâve made.
Like friends Iâve let hang in the wind.
I hear them rattle on each other, I wish I had an older brother to intone.
Some night music that gets in my bo-bo-bo-bones
To remove every trace of the places Iâve kno-kno-kno-known
Some days I feel like a well-received tourist.
Some days a guest that just wonât leave.
One day an acre of trees.
Then a little wicker wreath.
If you strobe in between you see no change.
But in an elemental way theyâre not the same.
One could argue thereâs some growth in decay.
But thatâs a cruel way to be kind, a lever for the weak of mind to tip big stones
into the vacuum of being a-lo-lo-lo-lone.
To warm up the hearth of a place thatâs no ho-ho-ho-home
Oh what a load what heavy lifting.
That light through cracks from ground thatâs shifting.
You find yourself beneath a bridge, the rafters above about to give.
Someone whistling above you and you know the next pi-pi-pi-pitch
Think you better start bracing from when youâre not some new ki-ki-ki-kid.
Iâve always felt that lifeâs a sinkhole
swallowing each day I get to give.
But the older I get the more it feels like the America west.
Something thatâs always clean, no matter the age.
Now filled with great mountainous things
that Iâve yet to make.