It's the first hint of autumn this morning, the last day of August.
The air is cool as the sun begins to rise, and last night's storm clouds
Darken the sky, but they are fading away with the light.
A song by a troubled woman, cigarettes are perfume and romance,
Plays slowly and sweetly in it's wickedness, as I drive through East Maryville,
The windows rolled down and the breeze chilling my tired skin.
Summers feels like it's over, but the hot days will linger on,
Maybe even until October, when the ghosts will be loitering
At the steps of old brown brick Baptist Churches,
And the cold creeks in what remains of this town's deep forests.
Romance, even broken and counterfeit, seduces me,
As that troubled woman sings, no matter how I to rise above myself.
The hot days will remain, but maybe the dark mornings I selfishly
Keep for myself will be cool, allowing me to heal and to dream,
And be soothed by that troubled woman and her haunting voice,
And the dreams of passions I keep telling myself I have put away.
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