Jack by the road


April doesn’t hurt here
Like it does in New England.

The smell of the fake dry feathers
puprle in the yellow sky and getting thinner and thinner

brighter as it can although the rain.

April doesn’t hurt here
Like it does in New England

the calm tides caressess in old particles of sand
and washes away lonely fishermen and their sweaty wet hat as the
smell of silence and lonliness echoes by the non-existing seas

April doesn’t hurt here
Like it does in New England.

The deep basso and the crossover cutting thunder by the
tiny long road by the corner of the street
and it ripped blizzard flakes such alike as the
exploding berries and wild clash flowers dying long night citys
and men turning their heads towards the whistle of their trains

April doesn’t hurt here
Like it does in New England.

I’d understand it all
while it runs within my legs and it cracks inside my bones
and it struggles inside my soul and pours aside the rain

Was it the same love
as mortify yers now know?

April doesn’t hurt here
Like it does in New England

and Nebraska still shivering and running down my spine
just as an old roam can be. Cold and warm

paradoxal confort
sparkling inside.

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