Summer Song of Sin

Last call of
summer songs of sin.
The single night where
the show leads me nowhere
to begin except to the
roaring silence streets.

There are the memories
I will forget, no doubt,
and recall with loud
rings of -When and -Where
and -Tell me when this
happened, again.

This night goes no further than
the start. A stalled car neath
the amber light, turned green
once more the streets meet
with yells of swan songs of
yet occurred escape.

The age but slight,
te wind but still.
Do these screams evade
forgotten lines of roads
once trodden? Or do
they fall into the new
pavemented, cemented
homes of steel?

Disappearing into
the call, the car and I share
no membrance at -How or
-When they fall.


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