"the good ones"

"the good ones"
written after the wild by jake kilroy.

the lights went out in the canyon,
except for the porch lanterns and stars,
and it was a red summer to come,
but it was a springtime meal
of promises and wine,
lacerating the insides
of every wedding guest.

"i wish it was monsoon season
or that we lived somewhere wet,
so i'd have something to protect you against,"
crooned the man waiting out his own mouth.

what a time it is
to think you're being young and stupid,
when the line you thought you walked
somewhere between reckless and carefree
is tightening around your neck
with each passing calendar tear.

every summer wasted and won,
this year was supposed to be lethal,
the buried truth of it all strung up
and out there to dry in the wind;
a banner year, a welcome home sign,
a protest against the aging process itself.

surely, each crown weighs heavier than the last,
and the royal museum, built of blood and muscle,
waits for new patrons to survey the artwork
and tell you your hands aren't older or shakier.
but it's not true, and you know that,
so you dig through the earth yourself,
hoping it all lasts, that eons aren't dreams,
that something does indeed conquer time.

is it so remarkable to tread lightly on the future?
i should hope so, for what good are we
as words and actions merely reacting to the present?

this is what i wish i had said:
"it is nothing to consider freedom."
truly.