underneath the rug and in the cupboard
the moss of our memories make an inconcpicous return
to the front of this little race we call uncertainty
a colloquial connection is all we may have left
but sometimes thats good enough
distraction lends its heavy hand to the promises
of the tagic delivery told and choked in dead pan

on a winding road filled with remnants of all things old
a casual crossing of thoughts delivers the words you broke
in english splattered on the tongue of their arrival
the consequence gives way to stale and idle

Haunted hearts and mental choirs
a hole you can't undig, so you rewrite instead
a Judas Tree silhouetted on the banquet of Drifters Ave.
a colloquial connection is all we may have left