City-walk Cigarette

(dirty leash)

it's the kind of conversation that you keep to yourself

too dark for the common, inappropriately rotten at the core

it's the kind of thing most people never talk about,

like some past life man-made beach without a shore

it's that dog in the desert still dragging its leash

with all the pent up silence, speaking the moment it's released

but you know it's the kind of feeling that transcends others

unknown to our senses, arguable, rotten at core

it's the kind of thing most people never seek out

it's the great white elephant with its colorless drought

every wrinkle, every lazy sigh, all the memories in between

all hitting the windshield at once, offering a cigarette break from the chaos

yet never forgetting the point, still pondering what it all means

over the years, the land has laid a river over these old cemeteries

a fermenting concoction of fear and love, with subtle berry after flavors

it's as flawless as the workload of a cloud, dry as an old book with a good hook

mind you, it's like the perfect composition of dust and rust

makes these weathered bars seem almost beautiful

yet I trust, in only the light I cannot reach but in a song

I believe it's in that old dog, still out there, still dragging its leash