Poem-A-Day: Day 270

Lost Highways

Slap down more forgiving rhapsodies,
and forget about what just happened.
The world drove the field, and passed,
giving way to sounds abhorring to nature
topped easily by the iron clad whistles,
and the ghostly visage that lives in mirrors.
Bitter taps against glass foundries
make room for panic, because it looms,
demonic like the beast on Bald Mountain,
commanding the dead and wasted lives
that have similarly scoffed at the world.
Bring out the dead, bring them back,
and throw the bodies to the wind
to see if they sail more noble than grass
fresh cut, uplifted blades ready to cut,
but not before they are eaten, drowned,
and baked in no normal oven red hot wandering.
The cruise has happened once too many times,
and left the lurch of slowing down somewhere,
but not far behind the ever turning wheels.