There you go, closing eyes on the road, anymore and any longer would break you apart but the wind in the palms, holding cigarettes at arm’s length away from the steering body in leather jacket you’re simply howling thru the night and driving away, looking in the mirror with some suspicion, with a vortex of contemplative freedom plunging into your thighs, face level with the edge of the streets, honesty lining the boulevard you left and then you zeroed into the skyline.
Spirit wither and turn weather in the seat that’s right beside…. Small and covered in smoke, the shades of sounds scattered over the shattered pieces, collected in album of heroic peace. You water the mirrors with your raining iris, and from there your vision blooms into the falling and calling of time, another person in semblance fastens the bravura of your design, to the air of your different sky. Now you can see for miles your arrival, and from the woods, it seems you’re really trying to be good. It seems you’re not dying, bowing over the pillows and craving the lurking story of your future, in the shoulders of your past, you’re keeping good.
You should return, go back, get free and swim across the faintest places, and the races that run freer. Then the glimmer and the glitters of oceanic blue can startle your head and gargle the sounds of screams in the great places of mystic watch, with your dreams underwater, and your ears rustling curtains dressed in flounders and curtails, tucking uncertainty beneath your belt as you tucker your shirt for a promised tomorrow.
Come morning, diamond air, combed hair, waking up to the revelry of life, barred to the holds and beginning another day until… until another breakaway.