Suburban Slumber


I find myself coming back to a story
Put on pause, yet found again
A road, A journey, A life
Ready for words, Whispering incessantly
The tinker of tin cans dances through the winds
That pass ever so gently through the trees
And blades of freshly cut grass at 2 am
When the night is the coldest and darkest
In suburban hell, a life waiting for words
A story to be told, carried back to the universe
I find myself stuck mid-back stroke, floating in waters so deep
Looking up at the puffiness of the clouds
Watching for shapes and tasty textures
The stars shine brightly through the windshield, broken with time
Small rocks have danced playfully upon the glass
Over the long drives between states and small towns
My story calls to me, tempting me through the silent, yet ever moving
Moonlit clouds of the wee mornings, before the world wakes
From a restless sleep, tell the story, where hence you came
The night taps silently upon the car window
I find solace

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