I meander on in this mundane plane.
The seatbelts screech without a tune,
and the foulest fumes fog up the room,
so, I wrench my head to this window.
I’d strive to dive in these inky depths,
swim in this sea of starlit streams,
but these windows snuff my lucid dreams,
and leave me breathless, begging for air.
My page stays white as wispy clouds.
My ink dried out and disappeared.
But could this nightly atmosphere,
promise me some mighty words?
No fine lines flow to my mind,
as cruise ships cross those black waters.
But could some mindless metaphors,
roar somewhere down that beaten track?
Could these red cars be bleeding hearts?
Where on earth are those missing parts?
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