a river running through my head; train
cries in the distance
its solace muffled
much the way I am
unable to find my tongue.
the window—it’s unbearable
but the droplets streaking the glass
highways, crossroads the likes of which
I’ll never have the nerve to explore.
my head I trace
a route so blissfully appealing
compared to the
flooding my ears;
the last thing I ever heard.
© Copyright 2014 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.