Iron tracks and sunshine racks,
glass and steel with rolling wheels.
Hustle bustle run toil and tussle,
under platinum skies where we came to die.
Glassy shine with machine whine,
like a funeral dirge when landscapes blur.
Flowers wilt with raining silt,
protruding from cracks through the iron tracks.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment