My solace:
at this moment someone's soul's been cut loose.
I only hope it wasn't yours.
Take these breaths, and find them a use.
I'd waste them, you need them more.
Dreams of dying men, and these bare hands,
the parking lot of some church we'd burned.
Hear the gunshot, run down the next street,
the smoke hangs over where we'd meet.
Mouthing words on silent lips;
lessons never learned in violence.
And if I were to kill,
then I'd have to taste of their blood
to be sure that I was justified,
that their blood was the same as mine:
bitter metals and medicines.
Stray sirens wake me to find the visions are all true;
I fear the life was yours.
Take these breaths, and give them a use.
I'll waste them, you'll make them more.
Take my breath and breathe.
Be what I could never be.
Live like you want them to see
everything about you,
what you dream,
everything
you've ever wanted to be,
and what it is to really be alive,
because this feels like just passing time
to meet an end, then again
what is it to really be alive?
Are we nothing more than dreams of dying men?
Our cold, dirty hands?
Rundown vacant lots and bloodstained sidewalks?
Promises long given up on?
It feels like death has wrapped his icy hands around my neck,
but he wouldn't let me off so easily,
and left this single breath in me.
Take it and breathe.
Be everything I could never be.
(I would never amount to but a dream.)
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