The streets are closed.
The sun crowds in
through the window panes.
And the people
all motionless.
Switched off,
they’re just out there.
Waiting for something
to drift in, and invent
perpetual motion.
Another thousand
year dream.
Throw some words down
The streets are closed.
The sun crowds in
through the window panes.
And the people
all motionless.
Switched off,
they’re just out there.
Waiting for something
to drift in, and invent
perpetual motion.
Another thousand
year dream.
A Wandering Poet 