We got out in winter, December bags under our eyes. They caught us complaining that we could never sever ties. We looked into Lisbon even though we never follow through. Cowboys on the raging ocean; the sky is white and we are blue. Saints and all of heavenʼs martyrs opened up their doors once a week. Bullet holes and Satan on a steeple watched us as we slept on cobbled streets. We sought out our savior and found her on a broken down Ford. Asking “Who will care for you tomorrow?” She said, “Thatʼs what we’ve got sinners for.” Hold your hands up brother; reach the star that shines on you. Give me that divine direction; the sky is white and we are blue.