falling over bruised archetypes for the
next great revolution, a lover turns to me;
'baby, you don't stand a chance.'
well, whatever chances
i've taken in my life have
led me here, into your arms-
through the forests of rot and
decay, a monochromatic future,
and a technicolor past,
whatever i've done has created
this.

you are just this moment,
breathing for once. congratulations.

whatever i've left before will return again,
and if it doesn't, i'll find it somewhere else.
lead me away from here, or i'll lead myself-
as soon as this wastebasket syndrome
escapes me- mountains of paper crushed
on the floor, one blank page waiting
screaming.
'run.'

12/12/2004

Posted on 12/13/2004
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams