Ghost cars fight for space on an empty street,
self-confidence gone, she peers at her feet.
No production today, the actress is dead.
The audience remains, but not a heart for her has bled.
Woe, is this silence misery? Or is it the other way?
Something told her she hadn't seen the last of these days.
If the pills aren't working, what hope is there left?
Seams between facade and reality irreparably cleft.
Oh, it's raining now; how dramatically ironic.
Acid falls from the sky, but don't drink from that tonic.
Black Pavement conceals Silver Sidewalk's bright visions.
Atmospheric water, your senses: what a collision.
Yes, the air is so sweet... Can you smell it?
This will go away, even if Fluox. can't quell it.
Author notes
I realize, like in all of my poems,
that the rhythm/flow is a bit off.
It sucks, but when I write,
it's like my hands are doing the thinking,
cause I don't even know where the words come from.
And then it seems a shame to change them.
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