Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Ring.

It's my own hypocrisy,
that is killing me,

I tell myself.

That I can sit
on the bonnet of my car,
beneath the stars,
watching it all happen;

The way the wind
teases the trees.

The way the trees
dance in appreciation.

The way the stars
give us something
to believe in.

The way the moon
lights the magic of the night.

The way the cool stones
from the dry river bed,
fit so perfectly in the palm of my hand,
and vibrate ever so gently,
a song,
if I am in the mood to listen.

It's killing me.

That I feel and see all of this.

Then grow cold and aged,
day by day,
in front of a screen,
treacherous,
traitorous,
a rat race
rapist
of the English language,

writing ads
for the man next door,
so that he can buy himself
a new fucking Volvo,

and pay me just enough,
that next weekend,
I can drive to the country

where I can sit
on the bonnet of my car,
beneath the stars,
watching it all happen;

The way the wind
teases the trees.

The way the trees
dance in appreciation.

The way the stars
give us something
to believe in.

The way the moon
lights the magic of the night.

The way the cool stones
from the dry river bed,
fit so perfectly in the palm of my hand,
and vibrate ever so gently,
a song,
if I am in the mood to listen.

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