A man who drives like he’s mad
A mirage in the summer,
And a ghost in the winter.
The air is epileptic with heat
Going on like a rippling curtain
I let go, and reattach myself
I am here, maybe there
Somehow, I grew this bitterness
Ashamed I let myself submerge
Whole hearted and light headed
Into this handsome revolution.
My lips are a clean slate,
Perhaps I have returned.