Sunday, December 6, 2009

Rush Hour

1:40 AM

The evening runs like a wind, a ski in a slope,
the head feels a sensation, hair dancing in the sea of air,
images blaze like pictures in marathon, trailing the omniscient darkness,
as the solitude is being pursued, the mind is being perused,
by the traces of destiny, sounding like heart beats,
ants marching, pulsating in every vein,
trailing the sea of cement, following every note.
The train dance still moves on, would carry on.

No comments: