May 05, 2005 21:27
We have come here to be surprised.
Rickety, Old and Ancient.
I have no secrets to tell.
Let them all fall out, every one. Let them drop and sag and crinkle and wrinkle. Let them turn gray and pale. Soon the joints will begin to pop and they will eventually freeze up from lack of use.
Atrophy. Ha! I cannot die, or so I think.
I had such an intense feeling the other day. I knew I was about to die. I mean that was the feeling, not that I'm actually about to die. The last time I felt that, one of my bestfriends got smushed in a car wreck. She escaped, thank everything, she doesn't have to worry about breathing anymore.
I am in the volcano. I am of the volcano. I am the volcano.
poems,
death,
me