The Devils Cold Horse

the television whispers and flickers its the only sing of life in the thick heat of the semi-darkness the air itself takes on a life of its own closing in around you personal heavy confining you speak to the empty room just to put a tangible lapse in the silence a sickly thin line of sunlight wriggles in past a rip in the curtain and falls mutely on the dirty linoleum floor slowly creeping across the cracks and stains illustrating them in brilliant color daylight slips away silence the devil on his cold horse and it was that darkness which had given birth to this grand scheme she walks in a forest of streetlights brushes one hand on their eternal pools of amber light the devil on his cold horse walks slow on the pavements by her side leading to the overthrown cities step into the fractured tower and look up at the starlight sifted by clouds isnt it pretty isnt it grand