Seven minutes shy of a life.
Time that matters most.
Will they weap his passing?
Will He welcome his soul?
Nothing left to say,
nothing left to do.,
hear the reaper knockin.
The saying is dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’.
Guilty of his deeds,
no way to change his story,
beggin’ for forgiveness.
What good is it doing?
Nothing saves a dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’
The chains burden every step,
small price to pay for a lost soul.
Beating blackened heart soon to cease,
dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’.
Two minutes shy of a life,
strapped in for a short ride.
The needle rips a hole,
grains of time faded to black.
Nothing left but the darkness,
nothing left but the tingles,
finding the light.
No sorrow due for this dead man walkin’,
dead man walkin’,
dead man wakin’.
Justice is served,
dead man,
dead man.

Mike-Michael Collard is one of my life-long friends. We cruised many back roads in his vintage ‘70 Mustang “back in the day.” Professionally, he has driven a truck over-the-road for as long as I can remember. Too many long roads have given him time to overthink everything and hone his outspoken, independent, hell-bent attitude. With a little coaxing I convinced him to share some of his writing with me to publish here. When not on the road he spends a lot of weekends spoiling his six grandkids and anxiously awaiting the arrival of the seventh.

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