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rynmccallPoems
Street lights shift in tandem, Flickering rhythmically Sputtering small halos of safety Bleached, cracking pavement devoid of fellow travelers, and subsequent passengers I devour dotted lines, The speed of light no longer constant. I allow heavy lids to fall without much hesitation. Feel the road sway beneath I above, disconnected, yet grounded still. Oil atop water; Disharmonious cohabitants Consistency is lost. I pretend time moves as I please With or without me I begin to count One Testing preservation, Instinctual construction of survival. Two How long can I trust touch to keep the course Three Can distance be anticipated without visual stimuli? Four I feel the whir of the engine, obediently churning Five hear the wind whipping defying my wish for silence slipping through the back window Six This is bliss. I swim envisioned oblivion Seven I should open my eyes Eight Reality in motion - time makes me queasy. Nine Sight returns. I stop counting. Safe, trundling on I slide silently down 48. December 12, 2016
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Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
Night Rider
Street lights shift in tandem, Flickering rhythmically Sputtering small halos of safety Bleached, cracking pavement devoid of fellow travelers, and subsequent passengers I devour dotted lines, The speed of light no longer constant. I allow heavy lids to fall without much hesitation. Feel the road sway beneath I above, disconnected, yet grounded still. Oil atop water; Disharmonious cohabitants Consistency is lost. I pretend time moves as I please With or without me I begin to count One Testing preservation, Instinctual construction of survival. Two How long can I trust touch to keep the course Three Can distance be anticipated without visual stimuli? Four I feel the whir of the engine, obediently churning Five hear the wind whipping defying my wish for silence slipping through the back window Six This is bliss. I swim envisioned oblivion Seven I should open my eyes Eight Reality in motion - time makes me queasy. Nine Sight returns. I stop counting. Safe, trundling on I slide silently down 48. December 12, 2016
#sad#driving#destruction#contemplative#bukowski
rynmccall
Written by
rynmccall
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
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