Sleeping at the wheel.

It was a perfect kind of situation.

The dead still air caused the birth of inspiration.

The remains of the tree's rotting on their beds below.

History told us the future

that it would all be ok.

 

The suffering souls lost out at sea,

searching for a wife in the night air,

could only swollow the salty sky,

and count themselves lucky for that.

 

A woman in bed, tosses and turns.

The last bit of youth she had left,

left.

Left with the man who died,

who once slept by her side.

As luck would have it,

she counts her self to sleep.

 

A lost space of time,

like an old tattered blanket,

wrapped in tight.

To keep the salt from our wounds,

and the dreams from our eyes.

Killing the noise,

the silence the same,

rocking ourselves to sleep.

 

 

Reviews

[CHRIS ANDES]

nice imagery
=]

[patricia]

this is realy good. loved it.

[Meghan]

This was great. I really like your style, the first lines pulled me in and I couldn't stop reading till the end. Your imagery and excellent descriptions really stood out. Great work!

[roarke]

Wow. Talk about a change of pace. Yeah man. Just the right amount of definition, sans the ambiguity and BAM..... the title is a grabber too.
Very nice work Mr. D.

[Priscilla Sayers]

A very insightful poem. Sorrowful, true. Wonderfully written.