There was talk of exploring
empty lots
until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
on empty maps until
We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets
Make it as far as frozen streets--
decide to paint it black
when
We've run out of red
Our hands are getting chapped
and
We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
our hazy, crossed out eyes
Come falling
snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries
The chips are falling
so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift
As tacit answers start to drift
the question's seeding up
the frozen ground
And rougher textures make for traction
so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
'til we find the map to another
point of black.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
There was talk of exploring
empty lots
until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
on empty maps until
We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets
Make it as far as frozen streets--
decide to paint it black
when
We've run out of red
Our hands are getting chapped
and
We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
our hazy, crossed out eyes
Come falling
snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries
The chips are falling
so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift
As tacit answers start to drift
the question's seeding up
the frozen ground
And rougher textures make for traction
so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
'til we find the map to another
point of black.
Another not-so-new one. I wrote this one about a year before today's posting date.
Request permission to use this poem