Dead Nature Or Unnatural Death
Road span of knots,
panels off line,
concrete of slopes,
signs every mile.
Dogged heart beats,
all here in haste,
tense nerves of streets,
the last – the first,
Wheel marks of brake,
air petrol fume,
black traces fade,
combustion doom.
Wrong pulse on earth,
neurons at odds,
no cares on death,
tired soul of clots.
Copyright © Oleg Borisov | Year Posted 2010
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