Parking Lot.

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I walk
Thoroughly around parked cars
Fixed at the spot
A machine built to go, to transcend
Stopped by a mechanism of its own form
Weaving,
a path that these can not walk
The consistency of my confusion stills me
usually whizzing by to the point of a blur
Is There.
Tangible.
I peer inside the vast whole
It's there.
Tangible.
The cries of go exhausts
Fuming silks of skies disease
I past it,
Going against rows of parked cars.

Created: Aug 31, 2009

Tags: poem.cars, symbolism

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