Monday, November 10, 2008


The down trodden-face
Accepting yet relentless for a different answer
A sweat stained steering wheel of trips past
The speakers fizz with every beat
Where are we going
No signs, no remaining distance
Just cracking glass and
the draining of work
Chapped lips and
A hoarse voice come well equipped
The phone was purposely drained
But its presence ever needed
The sound of hot concrete
Waves of tortured road
Contacts are drying up
but becoming wet even more

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