Visions
Who can really tell wheninspiration hits
like a hammer, or a drum.
A syringe full of memories and lust.
Crypt-like and cold are the times
of endless heat
Mindless struggles to obtain normalcy,
striving to free the guilt.
The rush of something foreign,
tides of endless reasoning
The ebb of want and flow of need
coursing to the finish.
Alone, and wondering when
all things will pass....
simply looking around the corner
past a different kind of sorrow.
Selective and roughly strewn,
with never a hope of recollection,
just the pages of a better time-
a square of laughter.
A tear not shed for grace,
a smile hewed from malice, contempt
The sun departs the plains
The night swallows the ocean.
12/19/07
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