codeine expenses and carousels,
smiling smiles and purple faces
spin us in this myriad of light;
drinking back the body cells,
counting lines and parking spaces.
Head against the window,
against a bloody windshield
in the eyes of the beholder when she has no sight.
The glass, neither half full or empty,
invisible to smooth grounds
in a failure of the good life.
Scroll down the replacement page
of profile songs and masked charades
that say goodnight to modern print
and dirt from only one perspective
shines down upon the foggy turnpike
as the headlights prepare for the final descent.
Straight into a new town, spuratic drive,
split seconds until the end of time
where philosophers forget to ask why.
But space is just a second nature
of headlines and these letter enders
that say "good luck" but not "goodbye."
The paint will dry in minutes away
but minutes too close to stop the crash
of fatalities and funerals in winter air
when life is short of happiness
and happiness is short of breath
and breath is short of despair;
automatic remote robots can save
the dramatic souls of innocence
when life falls from its sky of grace.
And I ask: "How did we get here?
Did we drive this road to crash and burn,
to let creation take our place?"