Patriotic

The candle burns down, but the candle never burns out. The time is filled with long walks by deserted roads. The eyes of a serial killer hunting mimic the flint of the moonlight reflecting on the water of night. Hopeless in drunken moments of despair. I see the poetry in death. Death waiting for me. I remember all the lives I've never lived. Past lives in dreams, so queer and subtle. I follow the movement of the gentle rain, lonely men looking for love. I feel alive in rooms of breath and ventilation. On damp grey days when nothing exiting is happening I wonder if I have a purpose, if my words will enter the soul of a wayward star. I look at the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, the green of the forest, the periphrasis of my footsteps in winter. I play Sandy Denny records when I don't feel so good, when the PTSD is manifesting in my realms of sadness. I listen to Joni and I don't feel so alone, looking at the skyline of Scotland. Birds flutter at the sound of an isolated gunshot, and the silence which falls afterwards echoes. Increasing pride in mechanical suburbs. I run with the wilderness in my heart. Rooted in patriotism, rooted in self-criticism. I always know. I walk through fires to dry shores. I relate to beachcombers polishing gold. I hear poets, calling darkness home.