A Jukebox Kiss

Red Fire

I started life with questions that had no answers.
Every turn felt like a map I had to draw myself.
Overgrown paths led to so many dead ends,
and long stretches where silence was my only friend.

I learned to stand on ground that wasn’t steady,
and to trust the weight of my own two hands.
Some doubts stayed with me like old friends.
But most I let fall behind.

After fifty years, you are the only things that feel certain.
The world spins, fast and strange,
but our roots know where the earth is warm.
We'll all huddle together, laugh, and ride out this storm.

Staring out the window at blurry yellow lines
from the back of a wood-paneled Ford Station Wagon
Skateboard wheels humming on cracked pavement.
Chased music with friends, indulged in some sonic joy.
I used to think chance ruled everything
until patterns surfaced in the noise.

I’ve planted things in poor soil,
only to watch the green push through.
If tomorrow is uncertain,
just build a small fire and keep it fed.

So if the water keeps on rising, 
and if the shouting never stops,
I want you to remember: the world is made by hands like ours.
What you choose becomes the shape of things.

I need to believe in our hands.
I need to believe in your hands.

Fifty years in, and you're the only things that feel certain.
The world spins, fast and strange,
but our roots know where the soil is warm.
We'll all huddle together, laugh, and ride out this storm.

Random is only random, until it finds a pattern.

I need to believe in our hands.
I need to believe in your hands.

Pattern in the Noise

The Narwhal

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