The offer has been made and accepted
and as the snow melts, I too will vanish from this place
no longer slave to memory and haunted vision
residing no more in the tomb of winter
or the bitter remains of her presence

I’ll make music there, in the balmy sun
watch the ocean glare from atop the skywheel
and amidst the music, the fucking and fighting
the warmth of the sun
perhaps I will learn to smile or laugh again

On southern sands, cut from all I once knew
abandoning all the old forms of contact
and the people on the periphery
lost to the fog of time and history
the artifacts dust-covered and neglected

I’ll play shows and fuck and fight
with the cynicism of a man taught
to swallow his emotions by a master of the art
and maybe in the songs will find redemption
or in the steps on the boardwalk

Packing up is a chore that needs to begin
before I rush to Carolina skies
the atonement in my music could make
the listener feel more than I am now
capable of doing

If I fall to the hedonism of life, under that azure dome
then forgive, as I keep running from myself
and the absinthal taste of existence
burn don’t fade, as the man once proclaimed
there is some wisdom in that phrase

The boxes of a life stand ready to be filled
with the detritus of once again and always was
the inevitable reckoning of temptation
to the habits of old, beckoning from the south
burn don’t fade, move as the music wills

Perhaps there is penance in the songs we will play
or the pleasures of flesh without feeling
from damage we cannot undo
not joyous but maybe a glimmer of an echo of a regret
the freefall of desperate defiance

In slow readiness packing away a life
into the boxes and cases to go, as snow melts
seeking to find in meticulous impermanence
with enough fucking, enough fighting, enough music
a reason to breath in those Carolina sands

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