The sound of fading RPMs
is the sound of life driving
off the distance. Below it dips away,
I can see its sails tipping, and
all the flopping limbs from
tiny men go overboard.
The sky sort of shakes up, like
everything kaleidoscopic.
Purple suns have eyes of red, and gold skin.
Red and gold and purple like the
smear of rainbows. Maybe
it was a rainbow, and
not the sun. Maybe I tripped and
fell out of the car in all
that chaos. Maybe my
head is bleeding and I
need medical attention. If this is death,
how wonderful. And if it isn't...
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Do you feel like reading anything I like? Then read some or all of what I write. Enjoy!
1 comment:
Fletcher,
I have always admired writers and poets. I had no idea you were so prolific in both. Very impressive. Marie
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