get to the verb - TLC 57

A German-made Bombardier Metro sped through subterranean optical illusions.

An old man wearing a crumpled white hat negotiated a slippery cobblestone slope with his wife.

She was his noun, he her verb.

“Get to the verb,” he said.

Their language of love complemented autumn browns, yellows and greens, golden sparrows, blue jays and preening lovey doves.

Streets named Regret and Laughter welcomed human potential.

Passion and heartbreak danced with death as a Moon Metro hurtled through folds in space-time.

Silent salient passengers wore sad eyed emptiness. They craved sleep in a tyranny of sheep-less-mess.