HENRIETTA MCALLISTER
Sitting back, there's no hunch to the chair.
The old clock still ticks on the wall. How's
that, and who takes care? If this was a
still-life painting, I'd be the orange bowl.
-
Outside the ever-present doorway, things
are still made of wood. Alike to the skeleton
and skull - upon some mad doctor's table in
a mysterious light - the bones of illogic are
talking to me. I came here for love, I
get dishonor for free.
-
(My father was no Robin Hood, yet I
still have feel and love and goodness
for all my fellow men. Now what can
I steal that can be given away? How I
better someone's life today?)...
No comments:
Post a Comment