May 23, 2004 04:39:00
Is it really this time
4.30a on a too muggy Baltimore morning
sitting, heresmoking fluttering by before
racing headlong into the warm coastal breeze
a multicolored 100 legged centipede
arging and barging for room in the pack
filled with hope, thoughts of glory
for a piece of die cast gold colored metal
blanket of sleep hanging on so many still
I should be
with them, resting, sleeping
dreaming a life never led
following my shadow, how is it
always ahead of me, predestined
posting silly dreams from my finger tips
flowing this heavy wet morning
I may die, my heart too big for my chest
no romanticism here, just physics
just no room for it to beat as big as I want
breath coming through burlap lungs
wrung with charcoal, and here, sitting
waiting to race this morning
balance kept, notfalling, gliding
through space and time, where is Spring
gone
Funny how that queasy tired feeling before a race is so easy to remember, and how on those morning everything is magnified and burned into memory.
More of why I suck later.
No comments:
Post a Comment