Sweven

Sleepless
They need so much, such little souls. Steal space. Take time. Leech light. Weep, wail, bleed dry any succulence of dreams. Life... but a sleepless scream.

Reverse
Ram runs only in reverse so we rage, ass first, into rush hour rift.

Black Rock
Blackrock beckons through bush, bog, and corn stalks brown. Finally free of wandery, we drink. Canteen is a thin black tube taller, even, than I. Passers-by, envious of the abnormal flask ask me to set sale. I decline. Back to black rock trails I fly.

Neighborhood
Snowless is winter. Her kiss sharp. Her breath crisp. We, locked out, wait to get in. They, locked in, wait to get out. In balmy pockets neath slush topped puddles, the lucky ones live summer lives. Across the street slumps a man of filth and ragged surrender. Into his rusted cup I toss a coin. His head raises. He is THE Mr. Rogers. Smiling, he sings his song. Horrified, I trip away. I don't want to be his neighbor.