the heavy hours

bore mud in the neo-cortex

olf a smoke filled head

patiently waiting for the rains to cease

in the twilight of a perpetually

winding

road.

the season is upon us.

the heavy hours have descended

upon this frivolous town.

roads filled with muck,

heads filled with sewage,

hopes fueled by rage,

dreams made hollow.

despair.

the uncaring go

about their road.

the deaf scream with pain

at the sound of the heavy hours.