The apathy flows through my veins
To my leaden feet, and I find
There is no way through that
I can create for myself.

Air like treacle has me
Under siege, smoking me out
Of this improvised hiding place
That no longer conceals me
From the decisions that say
"Make me", and the paths
That say "take me".

I'm an inverted marionette,
Operated from below,
Held down by a determined
Puppeteer.

Rhythm is illegal...there are
No patterns, there is none of
The order I am accused of
Needing. So maybe my
Discomfort is evidence.

All these things conspire to
Persuade me that I am a
Different me from the me I would
Like to think I am.

And as time slips away from me
I feel everything petering out,
Slowly leaving everything but me
Behind with it, as I feel carried
Away by music of travelling
Through both space and time.

02/29/2004

Posted on 02/29/2004
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