Tiny rivers flow past my face, stubbled and weary.
The grey of the sky seeps into the pores of the living
going deep...down...down into the cracks.
My attention wanders to the grime on the street signs,
the washed out watercolours of this living art
through the glass.
It seems its not enough for the clouds to vent their
anguish, one drop at a time. I feel that the dark
the wet
it keeps filling up my chest to the point where
I feel I could drown in that neverending whole.
Where does it stop?
Where do I begin?
I shrug for no answer comes from the reds and
the golds floating all around, whirling and dancing
dementedly.
The light turns red, I shift into gear.
Life passes on its indelible stain.
