Cheering as the wheels of the bus fly past the driver.
The solar sail unfurls and we are free of the gravitational pull.
Green felt smooth with hand painted white lines.
It's all riding on lucky 13 lunar cycles and a holiday in the sun.
We doplar through the event horizon, flat chat.
The tribe is marked with cigarette lighter smiley faces.
Doing shots of rocket fuel under the radiation light.
The escape is complete, including the three cats.
Kathy held up the 7 eleven, so we good for snacks.
Block rocken beats on the pirate radio station.
We are good, never better, we are going to be fine.
Exodus stage left.
YOU ARE READING
The word (a collection)
PoetryA collection of poetry. Short, longer. General, personal. Traditional and esoterical. Will add with time, as I sift through the random pile. Let me know if I accidentally double post anything :)
