soon sweetwater
will be a vaguely
brown memory as
the road to hillsboro
opens in front
of my tired gaze
hardly slept
in the microtel
but still managed
to wake myself
from painful dream
left some morose
prose scribbled in
the red clay and
listened patiently
to the great silence
beneath the windmills

the car is packed
i sit watching the sky
waiting for the day
to the crack the dark
spilling the yolk
of the sun across the
flat emptiness as
the winds howl with
the desires of the
pack of demons waiting
for my inevitable fall