RMC

Hours have been long
and at the breach I’d beat
like a bruised ruse
because I’m infatuated with you.
Son of a gun just for fun
I live by the barrel, I run
until the wide open sun spun
its final revolution—I need execution.

I want to bury deep my feet
in the sand that doesn’t command
my movements I will do this
to treat this feeling like a grain of sand.

To make the hours my power
to go on through the blues
to turn red until I’m dead
and my longing is fed.

My imagination is a station,
the tracks they run
through the blue,
and I feel I want you,
and I don’t know what to do.

Keep the beat,
the rifle is my name.
I want no fame,
the same love makes me sane;
but the torture is in the game.

Maybe I need it,
the hurt feels like I feel real
to my true nature the red is passion;
it’s a fashion.

So I ration the sun
before all else has begun.
I will heal how I feel
and run until the race is run.
I am incomplete;
my feet hit the streets
and I found a bridge to burn.
Now it’s my turn to live upon
my grip so I don’t slip.