Poetry · Writing

Saint’s Ancestral Plane

These are your shoes I wear:

Fireworks shared near by

and these are your shoes on my feet

I never saw this for me

wife and family maybe

but you believed in me

and will toast to the sky

to let you down for an hour.

Tell me, am I doing this right?

The last of a dying breed

a chip on my shoulders

and the nightmares that follow

impossible to not see the red run down my palms

but I know you’d say

I have more to say

more to live- more to dream.

To love that pretty girl who drives me wild

to put on that White Coat and wear it proud

to give a second chance-

Our time is up- the night grew cold

will talk next year

same place same time I’ll be here.

 

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