There is a place not so haunted, that has remained, bearing
the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows,
on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights
the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up
I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear
to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars
To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside
not too close to not breathe.
I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white
No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for,
or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here
To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance
in an unnamed city.
No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold,
and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory,
What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety
must be, as, to be in motion?
the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows,
on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights
the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up
I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear
to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars
To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside
not too close to not breathe.
I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white
No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for,
or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here
To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance
in an unnamed city.
No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold,
and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory,
What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety
must be, as, to be in motion?