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All Flowing
November 29, 2011
Born, shotgun in hand
Crimson, accustomed, so bland
Such misery, a sight to behold
P
alms stained, alone in the cold
On occasion, fault departs unto my own
Yet, most often, fate turns from me, so prone
Malady in a tone still unknown
Separate the tool of consequence
None such as benign as in ascendance
Contemplate the social psychosis
Push away from the omnipotent, overseen
And… Wither to join the unseen
© Preston M., Galesburg, IL
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