A poem from:

A Cold Road Calling

by D. Winter



September Third, Two Thousand

The paper's page lies open, page 8A;
The New York Times. Six Albanian coffins,
so still - silently wait reinterment.

Such a sad, somber, grey September day.
A woman speaks in passing, her voice soft
yet rising from the crowd; and like a splinter

impales my breath, my being; impales time:
"I'm glad I saved you from a fate like that."

Heart on fire, consciousness drowning, while time
stands on its head. Breathless and tense I sit,
hiding eyes glaring 'neathe the brim of my hat.

Must the neural-linguist always talk trash?
presenting suggestions utterly crass;
the mind becomes brittle - shatters like glass.








Tell a friend about this page!
Their Name:
Their Email:
Your Name:
Your Email:

Free JavaScripts provided
by The JavaScript Source

1