The Quitter by Max Elliot

she is best nearly empty
folded hands in the city
crystal gaze across the river to the stage
and the concert echoes like her brain

left to breathe in the sunlight
her misery is an apple pie
but it's nice to sleep after a sweet day
melt the fears away on an empty night
she separates and flies
to where they kill her disguise

pass it on, give it up, let it go
now she's as clean and pure as fresh snow

feeling like a torch of sorts
a writer of mercury with cloudy reports
her constriction was infinite, fresh kitchen friction
but when she swallows the pen she finds golden devotion

and her surrender is her salvation
an everlasting whisper on the back of her ribs
her construction haunts images that love to connect
the Martians giving nice advice
to a society rarely correct

pass it on, give it up, let it go, let it go
pass it on, give it up, let it go
now she's as clean and pure as fresh snow

she quit all her running, toward and away
she saves all of her money for her gas tank