Spider walking through
my morning, I collect the
habits and the hobbies
which help me construct
a separate self - which
apparently does not
exist. A few mugs of
Indian tea, the meds of
morning, scrapple, and
some time on the shitter.
Here I am. The self
that does not exist.
That explains a lot.
I just want to know who
smells the rain heavy in
the air and feels the moisture
on the humid wind of day?
Who tastes the dripping
tang of the apple or
slakes itself on the cold
draughts of spring water?
It is that one I have come
to love to be with, who
I have trusted to take me
into a living consumed by joy.
But yeah, he is not quite
who he used to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment