NOTHING DULLS THE KNIFE LIKE SITTING IN THE DAMP AIR.

pictures of you.

as i look through
this pile of pictures
i can see the face of death.
on the old folks
the obviously decaying
in the yellowed old snaps
and the crisp 1970s magazines.
i can see the look
the shadow of it
in the ill ones
even the young
in every crowd
there is the one.
the face that looks like it will be there soon.
the picture looks like it will be in a memorial.
another scrapbook.
dampened with tears,
summing up
another
lost
one.

waking.

slumbering dragons belch decades of clouds
into the tumbling blue sea sky,
mirrors are the inevetable way of the world.
grand dreams could be nothing more
than a way out,
in,
around.
try as we might, there comes days when the reality sets in.
the moon is the sun.
this land is me.
i am this land.
the sea must try to drink me,
and i will always want to run. run. run.
i am, after all is said and done, a failed sprinter...