|
From the 22nd floor |
|
Walking down the corridor |
|
Looking out the picture window down |
|
On Sycamore |
|
|
|
While perspective lines converge |
|
Rows of cars and buses merge |
|
All the sweet green trees of Atlanta burst |
|
Like little bombs |
|
Or little pom-poms |
|
Shaken by a careless hand |
|
That dries them off |
|
And leaves again |
|
|
|
Life just kind of empties out |
|
Less a deluge than a drought |
|
Less a giant mushroom cloud |
|
Than an unexploded shell |
|
Inside a cell |
|
Of the Lennox Hotel |
|
|
|
On the 22nd floor |
|
Found a notice on my door |
|
While outside, the sun is shining on |
|
Those little bombs |
|
Those little pom-poms |
|
|
|
Life just kind of empties out |
|
Less a deluge than a drought |
|
Less a giant mushroom cloud |
|
Than an unexploded shell |
|
Inside a cell |
|
Of the Lennox Hotel |
|
|
|
Inside a cell |
|
Of the Lennox Hotel |
|
|
|
Inside a cell |
|
Of the Lennox Hotel |
|
|
|
Inside a cell |
|
Of the Lennox Hotel |
