It's a worthless search for the listless heart's panacea
when we're walking around in circles, treading the same streets.
If there's something in the distance, I sure can't see it.
I've been watching my feet drag into stubs on the concrete.
The sky got so sick of being quiet that it started calling my name.
And I can't sleep now, even though I want to.
There's life outside of these windows that I've shut off from the light like I'm boarding them up for a storm
but it's coming either way.
I could take the tempestuous air into my lungs
and let out through stereo.
I could breathe it in all day, in bed, if I want to.
But I know it gets stale and thin and when the wind dies down
I've got nothing left to hold on to.
Eyes affixed to the ether in the night sky.
Stars and satellites are my only conversation piece.
I'm making promises in pen, and sweating bullets through this pale skin waiting for dry ink to lie to me.
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