Nothing 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.

.

.