and old poem.

I was looking through an old notebook today and found this. I think I wrote it a little less than four years ago (and boy was I angsty!). Thought I would share it.

Asphalt Glow

When it rains, everything goes blurry.
clouds hang around the horizon,
cluttering up the mountains like foam on root beer, making
the point at which earth ends and sky begins
indistinguishable.

Everything is so slick.
The ground becomes a vast, streaky. bubbling, warped,
perpetually morphing mirror.
In the day, it is gray and dark, reflecting
the sky with all its dreary honesty.

but at night.
At night it disregards how bright and cheery,
dull or weary
things may be. At ground level,
the only thought is for the asphalt's perceptions;
it takes what it sees and forms it, reforms it, transforms it into
some magical kingdom beneath the asphalt.

orange smudges
bright, everywhere
against a backdrop of stark
black.
reds and greens occasionally bloom across the pavement,
in our world
commands to stay put or continue on our ways.
In the world beneath the asphalt,
they are streaks of magic. they could be
fireworks, or faeries.
they could be symbols,
the meanings of which we couldn't begin to comprehend.

Or maybe. in that warped and fascinating world, they
are just telling a warped girl
who's waiting with impatient foot on pedal
waiting for some shining light above to give some direction:
to stop or go,
to remain ignorant or to know;
to be stunted, or grow.

Enjoy!
love you.