Lightening takes a photo
a garish flash;
then it's dark,
but the negative burns your lids-
Can't reach your eyes wide though,
if you can keep them that way.
I'm so fagged,
so much more trite
than I thought I would be.
The bitumen disappears
under the dirt,
those damn reflectors
of hazard red and white-
they're no good in the rain,
they don't exist outside of civilisation.
Scratch around for the last ten minutes
or years,
where did the road go?
Vide?
Bruised knees are all the rage:
in guilt, remorse and plain boredom.
And another small white cross
illuminated by lightning
winks by;
as good as a reflector,
too late. |
Submission Name: Vide
