|
I've no skill with a brush, |
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But maybe words can conjour a scene, |
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There were clouds made of white, |
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Overtop of a grass made of green, |
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And the wide of the sky, |
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Dragged a weight across my eyes, |
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Blurred the edges, |
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Poked holes in the screen, |
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And the white and the green dissolved, |
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In a sort of a dream: |
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There were millions of cars, |
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Stalled out in the rain, |
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Faces blank and they cannot explain, |
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What they're doing, |
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And where they're going in the night, |
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Now they're on the TV, |
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Calling on your phone, |
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Lock the kids up, |
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Won't leave you alone, |
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Till the heartwood's rotted through, |
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There were millions of cars, |
|
Stalled out in the rain, |
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Where they're going they cannot explain, |
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Staring out in the great black hole of the night, |
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And a millions of motors screamed out to be quiet. |
