The Walls

The walls speak volumes
of pages arranged in books, magazines
stacked one on the other, or
she, the Zombie Jet,  is leaning across his lap
paying Homage to the Lone Wolf on this moonless night.
The walls hold up our lives that otherwise might
spread across the floor like oil slicks on puddles,
auto headlights reflecting back into dilated pupils,
blinded, we run off the road only to
find ourselves.