they flee from the city
with feet lit crimson
& headlights in their hands
& happy clouds will love you
& the storm clouds match your gloom
& the stark scaffold of nude timbers
where words dwell with their ink
welcome you in quiet moderation
then spurned
with no why
they chase you
thru the mist
to the beach at the end of the world
& you lunge
at a loss
into the weak grey surf
& you lunge
at a loss
into the weak grey surf
& you land home
to the windows & the colour
& what
you say
in the
stephen king & john carpenter
was that ?
No comments:
Post a Comment