Jan 2016
12/16/15 6:26am
A sliver of color through the back window. The same peach as blushing cheeks and the fading blue of a baby's blanket. Trembling silence and clouds of breath mingling with each other in the newborn morning. Headlights taking snapshots of tired eyes; whispers tender enough not to wake the napping stars. Trees designing window panes clearly in a hurry, blurring in and out with all their arms stretched towards the sky. The road is stretching, too. The pavement stern and silent, clutching at the cars that dare disturb its sleep. The horizon hints at fire burning far away; a soft orange glow with wisps of grey feigning smoldering smoke. A train track breaks the tree line, headed off to god knows where. Its rails are far too drowsy to share their story now. Emergency exits, shy and unsure, boast red block letters and cringe with each overpass. As if anyone awake at this hour would bother escaping. The world rises grey, sore, soft, and insane. Not willing today to put on a show; driven into depression by each pair of feet; abused and misused and fed up to say the least. It yawns and stubborn concrete stays solemnly in place, decorated with plastic bags and stained with struggling weeds. Red leaking in the distance, igniting the belly of the vapor that is painted on the edge; the blaze already mentioned gaining confidence, it seems. Canary yellow losing faith and retreating beneath the flames, the first slivers of sea green peeking through at last. All of this behind, a different canvas up ahead: a vision of the clogged confusion not worth description or dedication. A rainbow on the right rebelling against the sky, bringing hope in desperate effort when infant hours threaten dawn.
A sliver of color through the back window. The same peach as blushing cheeks and the fading blue of a baby's blanket. Trembling silence and clouds of breath mingling with each other in the newborn morning. Headlights taking snapshots of tired eyes; whispers tender enough not to wake the napping stars. Trees designing window panes clearly in a hurry, blurring in and out with all their arms stretched towards the sky. The road is stretching, too. The pavement stern and silent, clutching at the cars that dare disturb its sleep. The horizon hints at fire burning far away; a soft orange glow with wisps of grey feigning smoldering smoke. A train track breaks the tree line, headed off to god knows where. Its rails are far too drowsy to share their story now. Emergency exits, shy and unsure, boast red block letters and cringe with each overpass. As if anyone awake at this hour would bother escaping. The world rises grey, sore, soft, and insane. Not willing today to put on a show; driven into depression by each pair of feet; abused and misused and fed up to say the least. It yawns and stubborn concrete stays solemnly in place, decorated with plastic bags and stained with struggling weeds. Red leaking in the distance, igniting the belly of the vapor that is painted on the edge; the blaze already mentioned gaining confidence, it seems. Canary yellow losing faith and retreating beneath the flames, the first slivers of sea green peeking through at last. All of this behind, a different canvas up ahead: a vision of the clogged confusion not worth description or dedication. A rainbow on the right rebelling against the sky, bringing hope in desperate effort when infant hours threaten dawn.
Just a morning I hate to write about
