swerve around picnics

c}{imps 8 my ears

The Time Given
–Where is it that fills the deepness I feel? You will say I’m not Robin the Hood, but how could I hide from top to foot, that I lost something in the hills? – Sibylle Baier, I Lost Something in the Hills

I do alright by forgiveness.
It’s a language I’m learning,
to tell my story
within the time given.
Roads change and people lie
scattered about on the grass.
Try to listen as they read the rules
of the game, but my brain just calls
more coffee and cake.

When I see someone struggle
with the words they’ve been given
and the truck I drive
outgrows the road faster than
I can swerve around picnics
and third space workers. Get out
of the cab and cry good.

It’s just grief and sadness and
a lobby full of children who’ve
made batches of sour candy
shaped like cartoons
and it’s okay to give up
on some things,
like: boys don’t cry, read the news,
or never give up an inch.

Cause what are we saving
all these inches for when
the friends I’ve known all
my life are gone? Sucked back
into a dream. And the only thing
they said before they left:
You’re not alone. You’ve never been.
You just don’t understand
– how wrong you are.

The archives of what’s been done
up ’til now they are mostly ignored.
And I wake up some days too late
to keep the headaches at bay.