Letters To Myself

It doesn’t matter what I’ve said or done,
It doesn’t matter what all I might think:
The world — it made its mind up long ago,
And I can stop and grow, or go and shrink —

For words go yellow; letters in the mail
Are just reminders of a time passed on,
Like signs in Cracker Barrel, or like eyes
That struggle trying to catch a glimpse of dawn.

I sold my pages, songs of many years,
To hear them on the radio one day —
They lie, forgotten, somewhere, in a drawer:
Instead, it’s radio that went away.

What was it for? Why did I sweat and bleed
A thousand nights of trying to do things right,
When I could just write letters to myself,
And lie in peace, away from fume and fight.

I saw the firebird again last night,
Within a dusty dream of country lanes,
And hoped he’d make back, beyond the sun,
For firebirds don’t do well with the rains —

And so I stamp and self-address these words,
And hope one day that maybe they’ll come back:
To find me as I struggle on through life,
A beaten man upon a beaten track,

Who’s seen the end of days, and heard the tune,
The harmony and rhythm in it all, 
Who sits and reads a letter from himself,
And wonders why its author seemed so


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