men are traveling these dark roads
their shadows are gambler’s lungs
tiny match sticks dance their flame to life
in this dark and fingers turn to iron scythes
this is the land of dark roads
where your voice escapes to haunt
the esplanades and the witches cabins
this is the land of dark cabins
where I wait for you in the dark
trembling like a dissected heart
on the good doctors stone
this is the dark country
where the horses ride white
through the dark harvest
and the dark men reap
their own dark hearts
portal and wanderlust matter warp
in the wheat black dust of morning
fog and you appear with a dark flag
a symbol of a dark country morning
but with my fingers inside you
searching for my own heart
I feel another hand grab mine
men are traveling these dark roads
by oliver maxwell kupper 1983-2010
