Creedence on the speaker in the bar. Voices in the rear, slow and obnoxious. I get my nerve back and chew quickly. I hear his boots under the table and the images return to my mind.
In all format, I'm dreaming you've found that certainty. Home is here where you've lingered over the years. Just shut off the day, a sweet plea is all I need to hear. I don't remember you so careless as I do now, your head upon the desk, smirk still evident on your chin. Be it you may remember the death you brought to our door.
Your sideways stance makes me torture thoughts of gallant and misunderstood lives of the lost. What makes you think you can become better?

The sounds carry on the restful river, bold waves seen rippling through the trees. You stand beside the dark, eyes peeking beneath thick lashes. I wonder how you'd take this feeling of loneliness, my denial of keeping on, being stale tonight. Shoes walk by, faces disappear, where is your pride? I brought my hands forward to unlatch my resistance so you could see. Did you see?
On the swallowed fear you ride, a prejudiced fortune you give up.

There are the lines of the night casting bound shadows on their jeans. Only their toes shine for a ponderer's right. Valid are the songs I hear behind the stage, as they argue for untoward impending stand. Gone are the cries once he gives them a sorrow only he understands.
A healer in his own right, but the laws of passion still apply. I watch his wrists flex creatively. I wonder where he goes when all the crowds leave his room.