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Sinkhole
I've always felt that life's a sinkhole
swallowing each day I get to give.
But the older I get the more it feels like the American west.
Something empty and clean, new as an egg.
Now filled with great mountainous things
that I've made.
Like friends I've let hang in the wind.
I hear them rattle on each other, I wish I had an older brother to intone.
Some night music that gets in my bo-bo-bo-bones
To remove every trace of the places I've kno-kno-kno-known
Some days I feel like a well-received tourist.
Some days a guest that just won't leave.
One day an acre of trees.
Then a little wicker wreath.
If you strobe in between you see no change.
But in an elemental way they're not the same.
One could argue there's some growth in decay.
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But that's a cruel way to be kind, a lever for the weak of mind to tip big stones
into the vacuum of being a-lo-lo-lo-lone.
To warm up the hearth of a place that's no ho-ho-ho-home
Oh what a load what heavy lifting.
That light through cracks from ground that's shifting.
You find yourself beneath a bridge, the rafters above about to give.
Someone whistling above you and you know the next pi-pi-pi-pitch
Think you better start bracing from when you're not some new ki-ki-ki-kid.
I've always felt that life's a sinkhole
swallowing each day I get to give.
But the older I get the more it feels like the America west.
Something that's always clean, no matter the age.
Now filled with great mountainous things
that I've yet to make.
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