The indignant fog procession of dawn doesn’t glide; it trundles, through eyeball mud and heavy, rattling bones inside tight skin.
Window cracks pour longing light at faceless, crumpled bed clothes and the inverted ticking of the clocks carries on like a warning, unanswered, as the scratching on the other side of the door becomes unbearable.
Outside of the coffee morning, bombs drop.
Good Morning?
- Lightning Rod
- Posts: 5211
- Joined: August 15th, 2004, 6:57 pm
- Location: between my ears
- Contact:
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 10 guests