Sing to the other end, to your only connection of trumpet and suffering brain cells.
Feel the tower collapsing. 
Hear the overpower thoughts reach out for some intangible destiny, 
disguised terror becoming realism and mistake. 
Which becomes finical aid and southern comfort. 
Pain eye sight, lip formed tears, and every damn savior,
 I intentionally create damaged goods for.
Wet thighs, wet hands, wet cheeks.
Every soaking tongue whip I dare speak.
For all the bursting revolutions burning these statements of the truth 
and the burden and the damsel, 
will flag down the pages of religious differences 
and give opportunity for new blank white pages.
Seek for depth, leak blood.
Shortness is constant, with the gift of lack of conditions.
The torture, the God’s true torture of these lungs breaking the density of lands,
spacing out the obvious balance of reasoning why two can not break unwritten rules.
These lungs are the growth of lessons learned 
and they are breathing strong, and shaking, and giving, and giving. 
These lungs are breaking, and shrieking, 
and meeting your every lost thought that shifts you to wide eyes.
These lungs are fighting for the hopeless heart beat, 
and fighting for the lonely hands, 
and fighting for the blindness of thin lips and long hair.
These lungs are the only grasp of reality. 
The reality is not distance, or the cutting edge, straight man.
Reality speaks for its self, each over passed bed time.
When the thousands of miles become tied breaths.
When I sing, you sing, to our only connections. 
The easy pass to drifting cabins or the back track to freezing fields. 
With all the hour and then hours. The day, the early morning. 
Until everything is lost and turns around, and realized the grown age.
Nothing will amount or matter.
Everything counts.
With me even, the odds will change.
The other end will keep the tragedy and life.
With all in tacked, share with me the intensity of passion and write back.