Ramble (freestyle notes for a short story perhaps)

took the Greyhound
down to San Diego
and tried to write a love song
on the way
but I got lost in sunlight
and the widest skies
overcame me
and made the words
(these words)
all come out wrong.
An old man sat beside me
with a flask on his belt
and pistol on his hip
told war stories enough
for a thousand nights
which dropped like pebbles
in a stream, babbling
from lips stained brown
by countless Lucky Strikes
before being silenced
by the sunset going down
to visit distant shores
in China and Japan
the darkness only shattered
by the burning cigarette sparks
on the floor of the bus
which the old man
let slip from his fingers
as he died.

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