The white stripes sleep inviolably.
No nuclear shine through indolent steel.
A few dozen miles to drive, like a test
to cover the asphalt with temptation of restness.
Oxygen echoes in the broken frame.
Someone’s gotta play the bright game.
Bright eyes taste truth of withered desease;
scarred mirrors excavate old fairytales to freeze.
Inertia sleeps, beyond the sun.
No fear, when 12th season has begun.
