A trace of bitterness In whose cold arms, the lovers Forget to go home.
Hoods hustle dark cars; Flowers shrink to skyscrapers. Doors close to mist and rain, Falling, Finding only cold cigarettes in Cold slums. It smokes the light of oncoming trucks Fighting roadside exhaustion.
It wasn’t a matter Of life and death, It was much more Important than that. Time is an old, tired Looking creature But She appreciates the wait; Enduring those sad months When it seems everything is Broken.