Eyes sore looking out at the world. Perhaps it’s air pollution; maybe it’s hate. The hour grew long in a place I rarely go. The wheels turned fast toward a place I always go. In between lies emptiness, in between tempts fate. The fading light hides that wandering path in a cloak of longing. But I roll on. I always do. On these worn out streets, these angry streets, where nothing ever remains the same, a worn out wraith, near transparent, rattles its bones for the few who listen.
the hour of happiness
Posted by birds fly on September 17, 2010