Walls from Rosemary by Zane Crook Jenkins

I even hear the mountains,
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water is their tears
and I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper upon the floor
it becomes garbage
it becomes cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines
and it matters little
because very little love is really not so bad
or very little life
all that really matters is waiting on these walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead

• Acoustic
• Experimental
• noise
• Roseburg