Periphery

High in the Sandias Mountains, the world like the face of Mars.

Craters and canyons and holy matrimony beneath a ceiling of stars.

And then the rooftop wraps around because the sky is just the ground

and nothing falls between the cracks.

It makes me laugh to think this worried me back there;

I see it now, the moving clouds, the heavy air.

But this is no painter who slouches before you, my sketches are simple and crude.

Would one with such telling hands be found in such a pose?

The facts I know do not necessitate a truth.

Fly down that American highway, the wind like a wrecking ball.

Suddenly, your planet feels small

and those tall tales on their false scales mean nothing at all.

But you recited them so well, the way the syntax rose and fell

and held together the pieces of that tattered yarn you wear today.

I like the way it brings out the anguish in your eyes.

It matches mine in such a way it's a sick mistake to label it divine.

There's someone out there who would kill to hold you now.

You're not alone unless you have your doubts.

We're on a sinking boat.

We're living just to get out alive but we should be singing with the sun in our eyes.

You'll never be alone unless you have your doubts.