Sunday, October 02, 2011
scrabbling scrawl
I can smell him on my moustache
The man I released to hunt again,
What is wrong with me?
This is what I do…
When I’ve got game.
Yet something was wrong
Maybe
In my heart
Or neurosis overwhelmed practicality
My ability
To fence in my manic disability
Failed me…
Or fate saved me.
Which is the truth?
I cannot say.
Whether other crashing realities
Colored my view of what should be
Or laid quietly
Along the road to epiphany…
A credentialed person will have to explain.
