Hope has been hung on the words of strange men
The cogs of clocked avenues are wound
Twitching tightly in our shadowed hearts
Waiting for the footfalls of gloved shoes
To whisper rehearsed apologies.
Outside the men stamp out cigarettes
Wordless in the sleet-stung lot
Angered by their impotence.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)