Author Information
Audience Watches
Hear the rain coming, like that train rumbling on down the tracks.
South bound shore line tunes its harpoon to the key of c and their loneliness.
My essence has no advice for them in these often gray matters.
Sounds like a troubadour morning holding nothing back.
Sometimes when the unloving is pretentious and, it seeks ravenous.
Then the hurting becomes, less than mysterious, but all the same it shatters.
Guess it’s true, the road to heaven at its peak, I’m sure it must be jammed packed.
Like Penn Station in the rush hour bitter-hard reality with a bit of 21st century madness.
Images of partitions can't separate hate from happiness, still the audience watches and like some kind of madmen they remain in tatters.
