The Confines of Escape
Wandering a monochrome dream,
she feeds coins to a vintage machine.
Trying to follow her one line in and one line out…
To silence the sound of no sound above the ground.
She barely breathes…
Her slingback shoes have broken down,
her Cartwheel hat flew miles to another town.
Barefoot and ahead of the rain she jumps in her Alfa Romeo,
like a sparrow with a broken wing tries to fly…
within the shadows and the confines of her heroes.
The sky above more classic than her car,
spares a ray of sun through the gray and narrow…
Slamming the brakes and gunning the gas pedal feel one in the same,
and each turn brings her back to the same firey escape…
of being a portrait of blame in her bedroom rain.
While this storm sleeps at night, she does not…
Hell…o…hello…the machine mimics the devil and the gentle.
Still and on hold for the transcendental,
as ticking turbulence connects the lines…
At last the morning murmurs find her,
inside a winding and rusty stairwell,
and old grays awaken and color her poem.
Free and flanked by feathery winds- her closest home,
she stares at war pigeons flapping their wings farewell.