Friday, February 15, 2013

february fifteen

a bus crowded and cold hands
i'd give up my seat to feel needed
most of the time i'd give up a lot more;
like the girl on the corner
promising something
something i'm convinced not even she knows why

if life is navigation
days are writing where i got off course
with compass forever north
forever where i left behind;
by night fall alcohol
makes prophets of even the most lost of sailors

setting anchor and out alone
we are stone walls, smoke stacks
and no direction home
no direction hopeful
that even drifters
will one day find the edge of the sea