Rushing down the devil’s own highway
trying to catch the moon
as it plays tag with the sky
Wouldn’t want to miss the dance
as we battle with tongues
and every wit we can muster
Passing through ghost towns
filled only with dusty dreams
and out of tune player pianos
Can’t stop feet from tapping
and fingers snapping
to the wailing moans of singing ghosts
Running free to a new hybrid
forged from mettles of old men
and drawings of young girls
No stopping progress
trains of thought
or free verse pouring
No circling back to collect souvenirs
the dust from each town will suffice
a painted garden of remembrance
The Word Rummager 
Leave a comment