Words
Words
Sacred whispers in my ear
Defining bits of my
Paper soul
To tear off and hand out
To the masses
Flyers of my well-worn life
Jutting out from the
Wipers of the
Hummers
And the hybrids
And the rusty old hatchbacks
That travel crooked roads
Without signs or directions
Useless bits of heart-felt jargon
Carelessly tossed
Across the parking lot
Sailing on the wind
To land in a dirty corner
With the other waste of the world
Perhaps a weary driver
Who fell asleep at the dash
Will take it
If for nothing else than to
Cast it in the trash
And reading it
Will find some solace
Its not GPS
But its a start.
~Darkling Plain, Sept. 5, 2006
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