He doesn't know
it won't be okay.
He doesn't know
I can't separate it from hysteria.
He doesn't know
he controls my worst fear.
It haunts my dreams.
Hits me while I'm driving.
Who would I be without he?
What would I do without knowing
he's out there somewhere.
Watching through the smoke of
a redneck bar without a name.
The thump of cowboy boots,
the jangle of dog tags.
Smell of cigar smoke
and sandal wood incense.
If i look closely I can see him
through the exhaust of an old mustang tail pipe.
In the half toothless smile of a truck-yard hooker.
On a porch in the hills of Kentucky.
In a train coming from nowhere going to nowhere.
Maybe that's what makes it okay.
Maybe it's in the howl of the passing train.
The one that will always be near.