Under Synapse Fire

Emotion.
He loads his shells into his gun.
He loads his words for everyone
with unappreciated artistry.
Audience.
He looks out at upholstered crowds,
and figures that loitering doubt
tastes good with vacancy.
Discouraged.
There’s no substance to his minor chords,
and all his lyrics can afford
are drunks and apathetic friends; distant relatives.

But still he sketches out his soul in scribbles,
convinced the best mirrors are college ruled.
Synapse fire aimed at legal notepads,
Ammunition built from vocabulary.
Oh, how they’d carry the casualties out of the range of the microphone;
over the radio.

‘Cause he’s heard the radio has a personality
and he says “I could dream bigger with that kind of reach.
Oh, I’d fill 800 square miles of corn and kidney beans,
and if no one’s listening,
at least I won’t be staring at these empty seats”