Tuesday, January 03, 2006

none of the usual retoric will do

i spent a few hours cleaning up
before killing a book that i will morn the death of
alone in a place i can't identify with
and its too damn cold for the rain season

high paced and manical was the only way to make it home
from the middle of the woods with no protection from the elements
at least as far as my windsheild was concerned

at eleven pm in a town full of past prime sinatraites
there were few who dared brave these caustic highways

the oncoming lights danced electric on the rain soaked glass
like so much glitter strewn about the floor the morning after

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