Transisted

The cold drum
Coked.
You know the best drummers have blood in their urine.
Where is this going?
Underground
Like a subway screaming.

First it is like this
Candy storm of images
Housed in a pair of scrubs.
Shaken like a branch full of cherries.

It could be tomorrow
When the wet soul is
Thrown loose and you are
Left watching it soar off
In the distance with your first love
Like burning a history.

The makings of tomorrow,
Going up in smoke
An uncontrollable laugh,
Hiccup in time
Standing, transfixed with our mirrored images.


© Sonja J. Phinney March 2006