i was naked when i wrote the first great american
novel, and my closet hasn't grown much since;
the door has become plastered with posters of idols;
there are more hangers in there, placed in anticipation
of the next great statement; but, beneath it all, there
still aren't any clothes to speak of.

looking over all i've conquered,
from this canyon home that is
teetering ever so tentatively on the edge
i wonder: what's next?

as i walk out of my bedroom,
it's snowing. i am meandering about to find
inspiration, leaving footprints behind-
i never wish to tread this path again.

it is frigid,
but i've escaped intact-
despite the cold winters and
long nights i've endured.
i am not unscathed, but i still haven't
encountered any rocks at the bottom of the canyon;
i can see them, though, and they're approaching
too fast, and with no clothes to catch on the branches
casually strewn along the cliffside,
this nakedness which was once so endearing
has left me with nowhere to go,

at least, that is how it will be,
very, very soon.

01/08/2005

Posted on 01/09/2005
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams