miercuri, 16 aprilie 2014

On the cold run

I never thought I'd hate rain
or rusty clocks
or people who forget
how to be mundane

my soaked heap
of fabric and memories
stands sprawled
at my feet,
while I clutch,both trembling
and weary,
to the mirrored soul
next to me

wheels turn

people come and go

houses melt into
a single tableau
of green and gloomy

a voice marching in my ear
tells me misery
is universal-
ah,but so are its nuances,
terrible stranger!

I arrive, I say "goodbye",
I depart-
such are the days
when you are
on the cold run

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