Five Gallon Tin Roof


Collapsing memories of days gone past of when
My soul danced to the beat
Of jazz buzzing across the top of tin roofs.
Eyes were stung by sweat,tears and lack of dreaming.
Metalic ruins of blistering
Bottles of aged danger still laid on my tongue
Stumbling with careful grace I wondered
When I would be able to draw the line in the sand.
When the sun could
Beat on my already beat up skin without hurting.
When I could see clearly,then, Was some sort of riddle
And seemed like a questionable
Device only self righteous bafoons could do.
I would try and convince myself,
Was part of the big plan.
Part of my building of
Self reliant purpose.
I remember those days of 5 gallon triggers
Laid out in front of me Like baptisimal baths
Ready for me to drink
From them to release my spirit
That brought me back home to the Upstate foothill
Deserts of fermented elixirs.
All the while my skin on fire,my eyes refusing to see.
My pagan ways covering up summer time crud.
Despite the once upon a time wreckage,
I have to bow in reference to these memories.
Because I wouldn't have been the true self
Had it not been for such magnificant Horror.

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