smoke and sand

I am done trying,
done surviving
on words alone
and colored prints
of late night stays
and weekend stints.

Within the sand
and smoke to rise
pulls and drags
will red our eyes.

I'm done trying
to piece it all together
and see if it withstands
this uneven july weather.

Cheating a little bit now,
and pulling at the seams
I write the things of magic
and the silhouettes of dreams.

Outlines with confusion
masked with better skill,
to hearts and cards
and spades and will
and drinking up your fill.

Masking with the words I weave,
and better with a tongue,
I sing a song of solitude
that has only just begun.