The headlights dissolve night heavy ink
A new day is born from the darkness of the dusk before
We shriek and swerve around the curve onto the heavy bridge.
And POP! We should've stopped but our stubborn live won't give.
Our hearts are pounding in desperation, to get to our destination.
Freeze the bells and clear the roads for the blue Sudan
He pounds the horn and and screams at the glowing eyes, attached to floating bodies
Another pump of break and I am thrown out on the road
Rush of warm air as the door closes and another opens
I want to reach my destination, so I run, run, breath burning
Not another soul dwells in the hallway, with a door ajar like the mouth of a snake
Numbers, so many numbers as I trek up ridged mountains
I see a familiar corridor, the air gets hotter and hotter.
235, I swing in my desk and the bells holler in jubilation. "Right on time." His rumbling voice says.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
The headlights dissolve night heavy ink
A new day is born from the darkness of the dusk before
We shriek and swerve around the curve onto the heavy bridge.
And POP! We should've stopped but our stubborn live won't give.
Our hearts are pounding in desperation, to get to our destination.
Freeze the bells and clear the roads for the blue Sudan
He pounds the horn and and screams at the glowing eyes, attached to floating bodies
Another pump of break and I am thrown out on the road
Rush of warm air as the door closes and another opens
I want to reach my destination, so I run, run, breath burning
Not another soul dwells in the hallway, with a door ajar like the mouth of a snake
Numbers, so many numbers as I trek up ridged mountains
I see a familiar corridor, the air gets hotter and hotter.
235, I swing in my desk and the bells holler in jubilation. "Right on time." His rumbling voice says.
Petrarchan sonnet
On being late
