Am I watching the final moments of my life fade away right here on this early autumn morning ?
Will this poem become anything more than just questions ?
I want beauty to appear from my words, I want the fingertips of saving to touch my face and tell me that I'll make it out somehow.
No more broken bones and aching skin, no more blue tomorrow's. I'm so tired from the road, covered in dust and memories, unable to place them all in order, no explanation for the way my words fall amongst the tiny bones of this dead bird, on the first autumn morning in my isolated mountain home.