Lost Drive

Here in Paris rain is falling,
Here at home,
Beds are unmade.

Out of doors, people go
Wool-wrapped, you sit and watch
Tinge of smoke and guitar melody
Cloud of ash and deep voices
Dampness envelops

Thoughts eradicate any sense of calm
Spate, an unhealthy thing
Can be haunting but grounding
Daunting but profound

You sit and ponder
Driving headfirst into the
Crimson brick wall
Aggravation and lust
Pressing down on the pedal

Cruising avenues of desperation
Pausing only to take a drag
A long, willowy puff escapes
Windows down, hands slipping

Scrambling for any sense of savior
Be it addiction, love or deep sleep
The wheels move continuously
Staring blankly ahead,
Losing your grip,
You pass curtained windows
Sleeping babies inside
Empty alleys
Drunks, junkies and the victimized
Struggling for a piece of pavement
Waning lampposts
Illuminating desolate streets
And your ambitions and hopes,
Laying discarded, somewhere along the road

Cars, like thoughts, cannot be stopped …

Here in Paris rain is falling,
Here in the heart,
Walls are crumbling.