The Welsh Dragon
the winter sun blasts through tinted Welsh windows, and my skin feels it all at once, sudden and warm after the cold grey miles. through the glass, the valleys roll on soft and endless, the long grass bending and lifting in the winter wind like it’s breathing slow and easy with the land. I drift
Another Journey
two days of nothing in this little bedroom cell, tins of super-strength lager stacked like golden buddhas on the nightstand, lucky strikes burning one after another till the air’s a thick blue smoke. and me, pounding the keys or staring at the ceiling where the cracks look like roads I’ll never take. headache again, that