The night is perfect.

Cold air relief
From the loud
Heat of the bus.

Beyond the road
People laugh
And embrace;
A perfect soundtrack
That ignites the silent stillness.  

I don't know where
You're coming from,
So I look both ways:

Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
A headlight!

Every time
An approaching car
Announces itself
Through engine and gravel,
I turn and look up as
A speedbump throws light
Flaring through my retina,
Obscuring everything,
So that for a few seconds,
I have no idea
If it's you or not.

And with each passing car,
My anticipation
Grows.
And my excitement
Grows.

I am happy.

Earthly blood.

Pushing.
Left inside the crimson.
Ton of
Thorn.
Like the village where we came from.
Green.
Itching.
Dust on the self.
Dust on the shelf where Frida Kahlo stood.
Dust standing dance.
Dust for your health.
And flowers for the some to die.
Just like how I should.




Garrett Johnson.

I follow the slow funeralistic parade
Too late to escape, warning came
On the radio, way past my last exit
I wonder who has died today?
Cars pass what were once shiny projectiles
Such as they, but are now soulless wrecks
Burnt out, like X-rays.


Who fell asleep at the wheel
Or made that last telephone call
That just couldn’t wait, while
Still chasing time in the fast lane,
To catch up with a schedule that now
Is as redundant as the chunk of metal
He was still trying to pay for.


Flashing lights mark the perimeter
Of some executive’s last stand
An accident? Perhaps, but maybe
Life just became that bit too quick
And caught up with him
An overdose of technology, leading to
A breakdown in human capacity.


We, the survivors, look on with grief
That could’ve been me! But not
Thankfully today, speeding on our way
Soon forgetting the graphic lesson
Someone gave their all to paint
But we have to look, just to see
If anyone has really died today.