It’s gone… rooting and digging through the dust encrusted piles of pressed paper, like a shaking addict’s fingers through his own vomit, hoping to find one last undigested pill.
It’s lost… pretty, flowing words. A last living connection with dead memories, buried in the collapse of time.
It’s over… searching where there is no finding, again and again, repeating the insanity of what does not change.
t’s complete… unacceptable acceptance at the loss… of words, of control, of hope. Yesterday is gone. Today is over. Tomorrow never promised.
So I write.
Copyright © 2012 Bill Friday