Southern picture

Rushing through the streets the sweat
On my upper lip is sweet, lingering as it is
Moist and cold, turning into ice
An odourless testimony of things past:
A passing car is like a theft

White the wings unfolding
The groaning beast is throwing
Itself from the ground to the air
Taking you to this somewhere
Never ever share

Waiting behind the window
Reading the same old line
Over and over and over
Until something
Starts feeling fine
Long last distance grown
Your eye is out of sight