Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

The lights are out
on lonesome highways.
They are black
and crusted with broken spiderwebs
or swollen under pale stars
and ripe with illuminated memories.
All of them are twisted
through dusk with fog
and mothed haloes.
Waves are not able
to pray across shores or skylines.
Only, here or there, a slow breeze
cold and crisp with its lines
whispers hymns
through gray water.