Son, we’re going to drink from this river till it carries our bones without sound. None left to stand and deliver, gone now but a whisper over mounds. None of us are getting out alive from here. Joy, joy to be taken and given. Never, never heaven, solid ground. Will talons count as show of hands as we’ve hidden under tables. All I know is you can’t take them back once you’ve played them. Some will roll and some will hold and thieves count cards at the table. All I know, you can’t turn your back or engage them. There are terms, there are rules. We could have mastered the science, we could make symbols of sounds. We could turn into clouds. Under wattles on far too soon ground, euphoric the spectre in shroud. While we share this same space I will resonate harmonious the sound. As you radiate purpose and warmth, I recline on the lawn. When the sun is your face and it feels like you’re never going down. Grief, grief is a threshold we all cross, love is carrying the bride. The wake is your drunk uncles stammer and I the polite shallow smile. None of us are getting out alive from hear. This, a blessing and I undeserving. Shadows, shadows are nothing to fear.
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Some old fogeys don't like the 'screaming' music. I might be an old fogey and I love the screaming music. High Tension can scream for me all they want. Richard Weems