PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Tis' 3am,
and all the good little children lay asleep in their beds,
curled up in their dreamlands,
cruising the electronic highways paved in their heads and
sifting through memories buried in sand,
as someone strolls down the highway,
broken compass in hand

dodging speeding thoughts,

whispering to someone

with nothing to say,
watching the bug zapper play with the moths --

self destructive in their search for the day.

Solemnly trying to escape from this place
while wondering where exactly she was trying to head
as she lays stranded in the wastelands of cyberspace
making futures of words not yet to be said.

Now she sits on the sea shore,
listening for sea shell promises on the incoming tide,
wondering if life will ever hold something more

then the series of events she has come to abide
yet knowing such thoughts will hold no significant meaning
when tomorrow is today.

Thus there is no use not excepting,
because in the end it doesn't matter much anyway.