Walk away dear vintage, hand on hip; eyes on the coarse road ahead. Bed after bed we fall, waiting simply for the Fall. And the Spring is nowhere near. Dancing in fear. Romancing with beer. We know no tact. But one day we sat down and wrote, promising the future. Nature holds. Winter grips and stagnancy doesn't. So the blood will spill from the glass crushed in our souls. We will wax poetic with mosaic insides while victory hides around the next corner. Who's driving. I ask you to hold the wheel as I reach back for my reasonability which may be out the window. Strong winds. Automobile metaphor. In the end we all crash; some fly off cliffs, some hit walls, some burn, some drown, some run out of gas and coast into a ditch moving so slow we never really see the wheels stop moving. But I can't believe in death because I see so much life in you. So much on your horizon. So much love. So much peace. So much so much. So we wander past the blood spills and the car crashes from bed to bed and season to season finding the art inside our souls... held together by the pain outside, though it may be.
Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead. In this photo: Angela Shields.
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