sighing, a sunlit figure
gently caresses the final razor-thin
pages of a book he
knows by heart.
he knows where the edge is
most violent, and he bleeds.
and bleeds. the page is crimson
before he decides to notice this assault.
outside, trees are stripped from the bottom,
he writes about the atrocities being horrendous
as his driving destroys these antennae.
as his papercutting destroys himself-

somewhere in the distance,
layers of cloud form perfectly
to create a cradle for the sun.
beauty emits shafts of light, and maybe
we are redeemed after all.

somewhere in the distance,
a skyline rises.
home. comfort.

08/02/2003

Posted on 03/12/2005
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams