This is the Southern Range.
Roads up here,
they want you thrown.
They coil, uncoil,
black snakes
hugging the rock.
There are signs of course,
always are,
crude symbols, bee colored,
lining the road.
Their message is plain:
Up here, so near
heaven,
danger falls.
Cars get crushed.
And in the morning
there's steam, it's everywhere,
rising like crazy.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
This is the Southern Range.
Roads up here,
they want you thrown.
They coil, uncoil,
black snakes
hugging the rock.
There are signs of course,
always are,
crude symbols, bee colored,
lining the road.
Their message is plain:
Up here, so near
heaven,
danger falls.
Cars get crushed.
And in the morning
there's steam, it's everywhere,
rising like crazy.
Request permission to use this poem