A man can walk miles
through lives and moments
fill his pockets with
verbs and nouns and photographs
and when it's cold outside
his brother freezing
blue to the knees blue to the bone
he'll shut the door
self serve the signs all say
save me from this blank slate
am I really here
a man can walk miles
through red and angry streets
with thirsty and empty eyes
taste bitter blood and cold s**
he hears a voice
it sounds like his own
but it's not his own
it cries lonely
he'll say he doesn't know that voice
and if you ask him
where have you been
he'll say heaven is a pocketful
self serve the signs all say