2003-08-25 - 5:02 p.m.
It smells of death. . .
One of these moments I'll look between the air,
take in hollow breaths,
and decipher all I fnd there
One of these moments I'll finger through my thoughts,
test the untasted,
then return them to their broken box Scream in my face
Run through my mind
Bleed through the wounds
you've left behind
One of these moments I'll tell myself to leave,
kill whatever blinks,
and then allow the corpse to grieve One of these off-kilter moments
One of these lost, putrid moments One of these moments I'll pry apart the well
that begs me to jump in
both to get out of and into Hell
One of these moments I'll make an ounce of sense,
retract every word,
and then blame it on coincidence Face all my screams
Mind when I run
Wind all the blood
up through the sun
One of these moments I'll take some time to seethe,
find some hollow joy
and regret ever having to breathe One of these unwasted moments
One of these lost, putrid moments. . .
[before] [after]
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