just focused on the
orange-filtered
rainy grays.

heading toward the steam,
but just can't get away.

it's not a race.

like voices being mixed
amongst a crowd;
i don't understand them
until i sort them out.

i'll take the train.

but at the end of this horizon
the rails will meet,

where everything is pressed into
the same thing.

but as for now
the in-between
is far from seen.

screaming out the windows
of moving cars,
the breeze will take it nowhere

but look at these stars;

we can see through
the clouds.

trees being bent
by sliding hills
are much too slow
for these human thrills.

drive, just ******* drive!

but at the end of this horizon
the road gets small,

and regrets are made
for all those things
we passed on by.

so from time to time
appreciate the growing green.

the ting-tang!
of the wind against a flagless pole

the scent, the depth, the seasons
of another soul