11/15/11

There is a  woeful narritave,
Of sorrowful and desperate scenes.
Attaching segments as we live,
It slithers, skulks, and serprntines.
About the corners of our souls,
It runs a circle that repeats,
Until this tale is all we know,
A recitation of defeat.
We must dissect this worm of words,
With sharpened will, deft and controlled,
To sever all we've known and heard,
And live a story unforetold.