Maps are cool

Astoria...

Soil-clumped bottles of rust
becoming torrential,
eventually creating a void
where my head once fell.
Once I held out my tongue
and inherited wishes
to finish out your reign
over Western Montana.

Rifle through the hills,
and tear out the pages.
A wage placed to the cur
all tender and gristle.
Oh whistler, you don't ring as true
when summer has gone.
The swan will sing just for you
when I no longer hear it.

At the end of Mercury's pass
lies a new life's blood.
The flood is released to the chill
of Astorian white mist.
A kiss placed only to lift
over dead pines and trenches.
Now wretched and worn are the names
that I once belonged to.

I sold you bales of black ash for the awakening,
and hunted the great horned owl across the Badlands
until all of my labors were sunk with the shadows behind me.

(and sounds like this)