The Walk Home
Current mood: artistic wannabe
A.M., dark outside
the great nightlight in the sky gleams just enough.
Cars drive by occasionally in the distance with an echoing exhale,
ersatz light only looks forward, squinting in the night.
Now only the rhythm of rubber sole against gravel--
crunch, crunch--like non-soggy cereal--crunch, crunch.
The obnoxious ringing in my ears the loudest sound,
drowns out the din in my mind, to escape the bedlam.
Dull aching chill against my skin,
the bitter breeze warms me.
Alone, alone in madness of the halcyon darkness.
Free, free in captivity of my thoughts.
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