Written by: Ph.d Volo Von Wolfenstein

The lamps malignant overhead transpire
steel to stars, and I
floating over silver highway, am 
transpiring dreams
to cars, expectations
passing fast into the horizon.

Tell me, do these dreams die?

Does that which seems so living,
fold over settling 
into smoke,
or become a supernova,
a host
of a new neuroses-
the black mouth of poems.