Knuckle

He saw no returns

Except for in the ice

The radiator symphony playing through the night

The white washed winter winds

Cold to the bone

No matter how much he burned in the engine of his soul

Oh and I understand now that

He was in the rhythm of the waves

Protagonist was living out his days

And the melancholic melody of another finished page

Pulled from his shorelines in such a lonesome wake

Knuckles red from writing

His living as a hiding

Every word fire bound, tucked into the flue

No one would be reading f

He’s careful with the pieces

Like stacked up unread newspapers

Carried out at night

From the corner store

Oh and I understand now that

He was in the rhythm of the waves

Protagonist was living out his days

And the melancholic melody of another finished page

Pulled from his shorelines in such a lonesome way

Oh and I understand now that

He was in the rhythm of the waves

Protagonist was living out his days

And the melancholic melody of another finished page

Pulled from his shorelines in such a lonesome way

He saw no returns

Smiled in the night

With the last phrase punctuated he headed for the ice