Scripted Improvisers

Everybody fades in these old towns

I want to leave before I become the anti-dote for change

Nothing ever paves well when my tires tread old concrete

I want to paint my rearview with images of backroads leading elsewhere

This town feels like a symptom

Old friends feel like a ghostly amnesia

Photo galleries feel like haunts kept alive in a still

Letting go won't let me go

For every corner I turn in the same direction - 365 days lost

Another root left to dry

But the floor of my kitchen feels like relief

A bottle of guilt to wash down the capsule shaped regret

Another phone call, a familiar voice on the other end reminds me I'm anchored here...

The ocean sinks into my lungs like air

I'm drowning in what-nots, what-ifs and maybe

This town has molded around my ambition, and it's fungal residue blinds me...

Letting go won't let me go

Old-town struggles have become my tale, one where the hero steals from himself, and gives time to those wasting it...

A reverse Robbin Hood, taking from a yet-wealth and investing in inconsequential...

In this town, everyone fades

But we tame the feeling with visors painted by fake smiles and "how's the weather?"...

We spout familiar names and leave legacies of gossip, we are the scripted improviser - nothing new, and always surprised...

Old-town blues, sounds like a bad song - wait around long enough and you'll sing it's tune too...