Author Information
Two of self
It is raining again...
through the glass, I see my own image
reflecting in the fine mist,
undigested concious thought mustered into view..
I watch myself fold to the earth,
blindly searching with deft fingers
in the silver dirt, among fleshy worms,
gathering the dead wood,carrying branches of bereavement..
I cannot turn away, rigid so as to snap,
involuntary footsteps move forward..
The closer to myself I come, the quicker the dissipation
the continual erosion
Until all that is left is the thunderous rain
in the mournfully numb empty..
