Good News: ‘when we pass these old desert stations, I want to go there with you’ – teitur

I picked up a newspaper,
glanced through the grey,
same old story as it was
yesterday, someone built
a picket fence around this
neighborhood, and I watched
us tear down walls but
replace what we could with
new borders and lies that
no reporter reported,
while no one believed what
they should. a story to
tell in this towering town,
all the people were dressing
their lives up-and-down,
and I left for something
better – a pen in my hand,
guitar at my side, a traveling
man, while my mother who cried
had left long ago,
her silence pervaded the years
like the snow that sat quiet,
its white everywhere,
she hoped for the best,
though with a blank stare.
I saw her in passing,
my time here now gone –
couldn’t help what I’d finished
couldn’t finish a song,
until I picked up a paper,
her story I read –
her life, as it ended,
it ended with dread –
the same she was born with,
the same when she died.
picket fences for borders,
a world to divide.

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