On the detour home,
the spotted yellow sky stands witness
to pensive melancholy,
the spotted yellow sky stands witness
to pensive melancholy,
like jaundiced eyes following my
every move, every breath, every sigh.
It is almost the weekend, I think,
and grip the steering wheel
as if it were a lone red buoy,
and I was stranded at sea.
The pain of the morning’s headache
lingers late into the day,
throbs with every memory of
happy days long gone,
pulses in tune with every exhausted heartbeat.
And the road home offers no solace,
remains gritty and ragged,
torn to shreds like my faith in things.
torn to shreds like my faith in things.
