Cold, hard metal descended from the sky that leads to each end of life like cold, hard reality that never leads to the open doors. Soon I'll sit on a line painted orange washing as the same leaf of jade fly by. They fly by. Over and over they go hear the warnings and the panic see the light screaming and the crumbs of precious time the safety that only told me lies. Still I sit on this cold salmon seat poetry writing to hear familiar beeps and the pattering of feet
When your safety net is taken, when you end up in a foreign place or a place where you are not just comfortable enough that you wish you'd hear something similar and not only that you believed is that you will hear something familiar. That's why you keep hoping. And hope is what keeps you going. Once again, thank you for swelling. A nice partnership