Road to Hannah Lee

the endless journey to nowhere.

I take this song from here

 

to the streets of Hannah Lee,

 

old, damp and cold like Arctic days,

 

to warm them, like the tip of my finger

 

when it holds the cigar end.

 

I would have carried it on my back

 

and soared with the yellow dust

 

on my fragile wings.

 

But I was afraid that the streets

 

would dim the grey lights in my eyes

questioning the absurdity of it all.

 

Streets should be warm and busy, I told myself.

 

The cobblestones are my brothers

 

the lamppost standing tall and pale

 

at the farthest, darkest end is my sister.

 

Sister, I am fire. I breathe your ecstasy

 

when the shadows burn on the sidewalks

 

in the blue dusk and the contour

of my clammed senses wander with the pain

 

of the beggars, have-nots waiting for alms;

 

hollows of sightless vision rebuking

 

the silence of my cluttered morning.

 

I shall however, walk by and reach the end.

 

The jagged ends shall not celebrate my ruin,

 

the footfalls shall not drum the silence

 

Of my wanderings.

 

The dust of the footed road rest on my hair

 

Silver on black, like the pale moon hanging

 

by the blackness of the night.

 

My palms are soiled; I tried to pick up the carcass

 

of my journey that begun on a crimson evening

 

with a single dollop of emptiness

 

on an empty street of Hannah Lee.