The Overflo

Boats long gone Moats too strong Songs are not wrong Meant to ease the end of our worlds Smiles turn to anguish as I grow old Holding the inner child down with the tips of my fingers Strayed too far at the edge of the world Endless mountains that range through the catacombs of this head Friends turned to statues Streets still at the same dead end Thrown into the pit Off the map out of bounds A soft burial where the takeoff exploded on the tar mat  Disintegrating pieces parts of the clean up The whole of being too late Under the weight of the blue moons Where innocence finally can lay it's head in the fires Walking through shooting sprees and bomb scares Where my eyes would begin to glow as the combustion painted my smile across the lawns where we never sat on Saturdays where we agreed you were prettier than ever. Folded into a suggestion box Filed under easy listening Homesick for a place that exists on the edge of summer. Comb over the records The cold cases warm by where I've