Hitchhiker of the Soul

Was’ trough reddest rose fog, Within these asphalt vines, That his brush froze up my knee An’ as plumage erased, Was thieved from hearts pace, And left anchored, within, his see “Apologies” I said, “I was counting my rings,” A little stumped, ironically “And these skies turned from wonder, Into oceans in thunder, Casting a shadow on thee” Commanded, lips parted, Moist covers of my bed, And not a stitch of comfort, A word to the dead. His rib-cage arose, “Land walker!” he croaked, “How blue your iris might be...” “These skies that we’re under, All oceans in thunder! Are bent to a rainbows degree...” Laughter croaked from the side of his mouth. Commanded, lips parted, Moist covers of his bed, And not a stitch of comfort, A word to the dead “...Tragedy lies not in rings you count last, It’s the count, itself, that cuts you in half”.