In the Afternoon

[solotto]

Inside of me the tempest spins
gleefully tearing my breath
from rotting lungs
spilling life into a frozen soul,
leaving no room for rememberance.

On Saturday,
sauntering down soot black roads,
drifting across the double yellow --
this is the place where I can't be old,
where two thousand voices
scream in my mind to let it all go.