Out the window moving at 60 miles per hour
My eyes observe the mountains half
Hidden by mist.
Just like a Chinese painting, I think;
No colour, but just shades of
Black, like ink.
Strangely enough as my eyes gaze closer
To where I am, things get less clear
Into a great blur where colours merge into
Each other, and you can’t tell one
I think we are going too fast;
Are too much in the
Thick of it.
We should slow down, or stand
Back and observe how
Before we get so caught up
In the whirlwind of love
or — worse —