Long the lingering, last-minute mind games
When faced with what, and who, and why…
Father Winston in his fat white collar tries
To soothe, to salve, to somehow save,
But this boy’s already around the bend,
With absolutely no one behind that wheel,
Wheel which spins when the tires spasm
And we finally fishtail off the highway,
Bearing down on many bushes burning
Only from the freakish Oklahoma heat,
Crashing through the thorny thicket
Surrounding this ultimate emptiness.
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