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The Moon
novemberrain
8 Nov 2003
The radio yells. It's all just noise; the words having lost meaning long ago. Noise to drown out the whispers.
I hate the miles we are forced to traverse, to or away from. Traveling towards an unwanted goal or away from one that is longed for. Taking you farther than you want to be because you need to be.
The miles make us different, make us older. Wearing down rubber and reason and resolve.
The moon takes pity and lights our way home.
It knows a thing or two about scars.
written a while ago. can be found along with others by me on www.fictionpress.net
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