A mixture of art in all its forms and random grabs from life and whatever else bubbles up….

The sharp edge…

The road is lined with those who’ve passed,

In broken, bloody deaths repast.

The dead lay strewn and tossed about,

And line the road, with all our doubt.

In deathly silence, they cry and shout.

With blood and gore, the reaper counts.

All alone in cold they lay,

Denied and robbed of other days.

The death toll mounts beside this road.

Run and jump, be quick their told.

Hurry, hurry, you fast and bold,

Lest you face a fate that’s truly cold.

The road doth curve and gently rise,

With flowers, trees and lakes surprise.

In beauties hold it curves ahead,

It leaves behind the lies unsaid.

Escape and choice we all do seek,

With devils eyes we flirt and speak.

Of sirens breasts we yearn to touch,

Caress and hold and want so much.

Skin of satin, lips of silk,

Flowered nipples, suckled milk.

For these we fight and maim and kill,

Cross the road and further still.

To find the thing that can’t be found,

We search for love that’s not around.

In curve and hill and gentle turn,

We live and love and laugh and yearn.

Then cast aside when then were through,

Toss away, the I love you.

We hit the road and leave behind,

All we had, for all will find.

We fill the road with past debris,

Of all we stole, because were free.

We value not that which we had,

Just run away when things get bad.

We line the road with all our kills,

Search instead for future thrills.

We toss it out and think it’s gone,

Till future roads do prove us wrong.

For road kill past can’t hurt us till,

The day we learn, it always will.

It waits for us so far in back

Straight ahead, along our track.

© 2010 Tim Wilkinson

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