Burnt Out

I wandered into this town of ghosts,
of hollow faces gasping through smoke,
that float in a dreamy haze through thoughtless days.

I strive to see the sunny side
of drugs and trailers, double-wide,
of moonlit lawns and lips and longings’ past.

I walk alone through shades of gray
and color it with my paints
but all I ever see are others’ frowns.

I’m down on luck, I’m down on friends,
I’m tired of journeys, I’m tired of ends.
The wheels are coming off; help me, please!

Why, oh why do I beg and try?
Gods have touched the head I clutch in vain.
…I’m so ashamed.

For all this bitter smoke I blow
the wind will always show me home, or at least
the place where I know what I’m doing.

I’ve seen the love that does not end,
my gift, my curse, my fateful friend:
that honest stranger grasping from the shadows.

I dream a dream worth fighting for -
or dying for — if never more,
that never more should lovers go to war.

Not to belabor my weary cause, but for it’s sake
a gentle pause
in light of the chaos from which we receive our laws.

We dream these dreams for better things -
for more natural means — for ideal scenes-
to channel feelings into our daily dealings,

so for all the ones who matter most:
family; someday kids, I hope,
these ends I burn, I pass along to you.