Where the Lifeline of Your Sleep Reads Good Fortune

Take me down to where the jukeboxes wear brass knuckles, howl like wild dogs, and play our favorite songs again and again. The place where hatemongers and rustsongers have grown extinct. Where no gun alive ever rests in our palms, or writes our psalms. Take me to the place where the wind steals the suicide note from the lonely man’s hand and offers him a ticket to lighter, freer days. The place where our hearts refuse to lick the bootblack of dread. Where love is measured in actions, not words. The place where hope offers us enough light to write by.

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