Night Writer
Jul 24, 2017 · 1 min read

The Beginning of Destruction

My eyes lying in the back of my head look at the crumpled newspaper. The rain. The quiet rain. My tired head turns up to look at the ceiling. The ceiling has lowered since I have lived here. My age reveals nothing about my personality. Less about my indiscretions. The walls of this apartment have nothing to say on these matters. Nevertheless they remind me of her abscence. Pale and bare, like a humid wheat field, love has a way of turning the alphabet into a caustic freeway. Grandiose futility. Outside in the early morning a train’s headlamp jolts and spasms as it leads the rusted wheels into an unknown future.

Night Writer

Written by

| nightly poems for all hours of the day | inspired, in part, by ~ The Beatles ~ Albert Camus ~ Luis Bunuel | a nightcap of poetic randomness |