For many days
I lay here, still
upon the bed
flat and empty
as many a sand dune underneath the sun
I am old and still,
like the earth will be
in a million years,
with no moon
and a bloodly sun
and only moss to grow
All people are silent,
locked and froze
into their retrospective roles
like cardboard puppets
in their grooves they run,
A frozen lake
or Greyhound
or a razor blooming oh-so-red,
There's many ways,
many choices
of how to leave this town