I could be a passing thought
as credits roll and the sun is setting,
the punchline of a joke
you were afraid of never getting.
A waterfall of what if
in a forest, stuck in winter -
a game you cannot play,
corrupted art, to your eternal infection
I’m afraid I am the unidentified splinter.
So pull me out of your veins,
don’t let me turn you grey
pull me out of your veins,
before I can follow, and I’ll try - run away.
In a world of passing thoughts,
remember me as the poet
with all the wrong things to say
and I’ll be in the backroom,
with the supporting role I’ll learn to play.
Flow over me ☀️
Broken Open-Cold War Kids