The acid smells of traffic call the engine trolls out, 
try not to be too harsh on them.
It’s not easy to mix octane with water, 
but someday we’ll all face a brighter dawn.
Does that make the darkness blacker?
Have I really become a slacker?
It’s hardly started.

See the seas of soft controversy, spill into a dark milky.
It’s all just one-way streets with no exits, 
splices and dices and digital edits.
Do the swans sleep in the park any more?
Why do vagabonds stop by the shore?
It’s hardly started

As I wander down those old familar streets,
The faces of lost friends rise from T-shirt stores.
I don’t what time it is, but I can see through the sky.
All doubts and fears abound, cos this is a terminal town.
Can this be the end of all our tales?
Is this where all our wisdom fails?
# copyright Joe Johnston