Monday, May 9, 2011

The Wagon.

Another jaunty express ride to hell
You're either on it or off it
According to how far and fast you fell
It carries you some distance
Drops you in a dead end district
You see a bar and think: might as well
Wake up with strange pains
That over days turn into bruises
The stories your bones could tell
No more so than stained bed sheets
Torn clothing and that lingering vomit smell
If only you could stay on that wagon
It might be like those shiny advertisements
Except there's nothing left to sell
You arrive in a place of sunlight
Birdsong and immaculately kept gardens
Your future tolling like a bright brass bell.

© shaun patrick green 2011

1 comment:

  1. so sweetly writ this luminous, resonant shell
    a warning of next mornings, somewhere fell
    a street, a horizon blinding bleak as hell
    curled,
    later to unfurl each frond reluctantly toward the sun
    and some public
    transportation
    a dim recollection
    home

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