Tuesday, January 2, 2018

nothing can ever be the same
















the rain comes at last,
the storm has been brewing
for days,
for weeks,
for months,
for years;
for a lifetime;
changes come like lightning,
new creatures, emerging
from under the spotlight of
iniquity and anonymity,
the metamorphosis complete,
the way back,
closed forever,
the way ahead;
lost in the melodrama;
down in these sewer pits,
drunken monkeys rant and rave,
rampaging through the
dark, eternal night,
precious time lost
valuable energy spent;
gone forever;
words?
Rimbaud had words,
Morrison had words,
Bukowski had words,
I have words;
I have no need for theirs;
I observe them like a disease,
just a glance here,
a taste there,
carefully preventing infection,
swallowing the antidote,
puking up the symptoms;
now,
nothing can ever be the same.
.

.

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