The stain on your oxford sweatshirt
And a beer on my bedroom balcony.
Absent minded, the intervention went
Something like a dance to a dead-pan waltz
So things are never as hopeless as they seem.
Everyone picked up and drove away with
Slow respect dripping from the exhaust
That was felt like a red-faced child
Inside the closet door, heart racing with regret
And fear that this time he went too far.
Sunken eyes see judgement as a curse
And save themselves in a chemical confession,
But perhaps it's better than the verbal rod
Or a switch that came from the mouth of a friend.
The truth doesn't know the difference between it.
So any outstretched hand that's cut
Is justice now for a long lost grudge
And traveling through time is a one-way show.
The only entertainment in this pious hell
Is a vision of the future that none of us know.
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