Victorian house is crumbling in the street.
My wheels take me to the next town over.
Away from cankerous television - rotting air conditioning.
Like the wind all purplish gold.
bittersweet vine always on time.
Which day is it?
My feet take me to the next town over...
where it is more peaceful
and people greet you with a smile.
In my old town...
The mural shows people evading the ruins and flames
and coming to the next town over...
but it is just my old town...
I prefer the next town over.
The town wreaks of raspberry bushes, and overgrown weeds.
I see the horse crapping on the street.
Lifted melodies from the swamps of black birds.
The old store that I can not enter without removing the doorknob.
The streets are empty tiles in a forest.
I ride to the next town over,
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