Thursday, June 24, 2010
Shining golden smeared words: they are tainted. The sun shines down on my freckle-spotted nose; I have a truck. Rumble-grumble he yearns for the open road. As do I, I whisper, forehead on the steering wheel. I'm imagining another time; the future spins cobwebs in my brain. Collapse; the time for running has come, my shoes are still in the post, meandering along like my favorite brook, not speedy like the rushing river. Now, please! I scream; quiet as a mouse.