There is a rocky road to your rounded ruins. There are ropes shaped like rants. There’s a restful rhythm in your raging rivers. A resonating rap. There’s a revolution in your wrenching ribs. Where resolution reaps. There’s a REM in remembering. There’s a rain that roars and weeps. There are rights in wrongs and wrongs that write. Rails rest on tracks of rust. There are rhymes in my reasoning but none of which I trust. There’s a red ragged hobo bag on the stick I rightly clutch. There are raspy rounds of traveling songs.This war is just too much.
Joshua Tool – 08/10/13