Tin Cans and String

Alright, So It goes like this.

You’re driving on this road that you’ve been on once before.

Some back-way street you can never remember the name of.

Something like Allure. But that’s probably not it. 

You’re driving about 80 and you can barely tell the road is made of rocks and cement.
If you look down it looks like lines of thread rushing past.
As if it were weaving something to cover the earth.

But, the cold rests on frosted tips which lay on everything that breathes.

And everything that breaths melts and shrivels into a timid pearl,
and that pearl's worth nothing.

So, the earth will probably spin bare still.
But, If the cold could speak, I would speak back to it. And if the cold could speak

It would whisper and it would put her hand on your back and finger
the 
ridges that trail downward, And you'd shiver. 

You'd shiver so much you could sleep in it.
It seems that way for everyone though, so you just sleep in it.

But anyways, you’re going about 80 and you’re above the ground and your feet
don’t get dirty.

Your tires just clench teeth with the road and you see sand dunes form
like a man’s jaw muscles. 
You pack your fists with steering wheel
and your palms excrete some liquid,
which you could’ve probably found some use for.

Pretty soon you’ll hit a bridge which will tower over a river with fish
you’ll never eat. 
Suddenly you feel thirsty, you lose some more liquid
and your hand slips from the wheel. 

The bridge has walk ways on both sides
with stone railings. 
The railings are tall. They hang their heads and they show angels
among their carvings. 
You know this because your driving right towards those railings
and your foot’s shy of the break. 
Shy like you were in grade school,
shy of the girls who grew tits and wore nice clothes.
For a second, you question whether you car will survive the fall.
You think of it as a dense tomb of colored wires and metal boxes. 

Tombs like the ones they buried kings in. I've been told King Tut had one.
Maybe my tomb will burn and be sent off to sea. Maybe the splash could be a hymn.
They’ll shoot a gun for you and they’ll tap on their drums for you.
But, mostly they'll just sink with you. 
When you break the railing, you don’t feel much.
Your head just moves forward like you’re dozing off to sleep. 
But you wake up.
You’re falling after all. 

This bridge is high enough for Icarus to die from
and your father never gave you wings. 

So, When the air cradles you, like you were in your mothers home,
the only thing you see is that river. 
You see the crashing white
and it looks like a woman’s hair being torn downwards. 

Then you think of the first time you got laid and notice there’s a rock in your shoe.

But, you pretend it’s just thread.