Day, brother, turns into night.
This ancient creek thickens and foams,
Flowing on among boulders of a life;
Bearing witness to places I roam.
Ghosts of apparent lies visit me almost every night;
To the point, I am unable to hide.
Friends I once had, stand no longer in light.
The past, moments in time, now pushed aside.
Once gone,
What went before me has never much been.
Rail yard whistles blow.
Yet, I am deaf once they go.
Time is a faith as good as dumb sin.
Who made up the plot which haunts me?
In January, palms and thighs were mellow,
Followed by kisses, colder than December snow.
