He was born among fighting armies, but in the Midwest guarded by land and sea. He grew up telling stories, but it's reality that holds true and his is for thee.
There's nothing here but short evenings, and endless nights are shadowing. Every aching hour he leaves to think. He's picking up on subtleties.
He needs to leave her. He needs to rid himself of these ties. He is eager. He wants to rebuild his fragile pride. He needs to leave her, but like a fever it makes a cold sweat roll down his spine.
His spine, still pricklier than the quills of a porcupine, but his stature resembles a bird in flight. Graceful but not quite the better man. It is possible that he will make the same mistakes again.
Breathe in, Breathe out, and make a plan.
Say your prayers, and say your goodbyes. Boy you look tired; too bad you won't sleep tonight. In your head a biting termite is cleaning space to prove there's not much left behind.
There's nothing here but stranded dreams, and endless nights are swallowing. Every aching hour you grind your teeth. You've realized its time to leave.
Don't take your time. Don't clean your mess. Just give yourself. Give all that’s left. You said I don't think I'll make it out alive. This town is wrong, and you stay right. You're right, and you'll hold it till you die.