I felt your love even when my sword got too heavy to keep the wolves away. You kept me in frame when I failed to bloom, strung out stoned on some boring afternoon. I thought I could go to heaven by holding a big red balloon. It was too soon and your love was heavy enough to keep me planted. I love you through all the tabloid panic and movie star manics. The past we share is painted on a colossal ship’s anchor that sank into the sea, sitting in the belly of darkness until that as we are free. Us, the two hell hounds, finding the heroes of old across state lines, have no place in time. Hey look, it’s Lead Belly still looking through the pines, while Woody Guthrie declares This Land Is Your Land and Jimi sings castles made of sand. Maybe next Dylan will put us in Desolation Row. Oh, how I wish this was a fucking fairy tale and I didn’t sit idle, MAD! Talking to your ghost. In this pastel pattern home that carries sorrow like a worn out wanted poster of some dead frontier maverick, long hung, but his image still nailed to a post. The contempt keeps me alive, contempt for life without a disguise. No mask—just paralyzed, fixed eyes that only the dead can read. I got one more seed I stole from Eden. I’ll plant it and God will see I have grown past the frail deeds. Give you back to my arms to hold, and so I believe. I believe in that till I rightfully collapse, enchanted in memories, and life fades to black.