Springtime – 5/11/19

Spring rains come and spring rains go
and mud clings to our hands.
Horses kick their riders and run for freedom,
forgotten songs play on the AM bands
thistles shoot up and spread each day and
their brambles sting as they’re weeded away.
The spring rains come and in a moment of doubt
I think of you, and me, and what’s needed,
and I wish I had a good reason –
a reason to die as slow as I can –
a reason to die as a better man –
a reason to wash the mud from my hands.

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