The road is
a black tar snake
tapering to the horizon;
to oblivion and beyond.
The car radio plays
ghosts of songs,
fading in and out;
fallen transmissions.
Out here, nothing lives
except flies staining
the windscreen
with their remains.
The fire we left
stains the sky behind;
indian ink on
eggshell blue.
In the rear-view,
the world disappears,
like failed memories;
a vast in reverse.
Out here, there isn’t
much distance between
god and the devil;
it all burns regardless.
Life is reversed;
unmoved by
modern society,
the land is ageless.
There are clouds
on the ground
and great lakes
in the sky.
Out here,
time means nothing;
all life moves past,
lost in transit.
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | March 10, 2011 - 13:01
I like this, Dynamaso...giving the reader much to think about in each stanza. My two favourite, I guess, are these:-
"The fire we left
stains the sky behind;
indian ink on
eggshell blue."
"There are clouds
on the ground
and great lakes
in the sky."
Some great imagery here.
Tina
fatboy74 | March 10, 2011 - 21:59
Very fond of the stanza:
Out here, there isn’t
much distance between
god and the devil;
it all burns regardless.
Another really enjoyable poem Dynamaso, has real sense of place. :-)
Dynamaso | March 10, 2011 - 23:13
Tina, I'm pleased this gave you pause for thought. Thanks for your continual support - much appreciated.
Dynamaso | March 10, 2011 - 23:15
Fatboy, you've picked my favourite of the 'chorus' stanzas. I really pleased you enjoyed this and thank you for commenting too.
shoe | March 11, 2011 - 10:02
Nicely captures a sense of desolation, and I like the use of the car to set the scenes and each neat 4 line stanza structure, much enjoyed.
Dynamaso | March 11, 2011 - 13:23
Thanks for your comments, Shoe. This is partly written based on memories of crossing the Nullabor Plain, here in Australia.