The day is rain; the rest is mud
But artificial roads beckon me,
Inviting me to my destination- had I one
A chorus of ambient metal courses
through the fingertips of my soul
I wander semi-familiar paths
And choices present themselves
And decisions are made in a flash
The flash of photography;
Hardly voluntary
One right-wrong turn and I am
I am heading toward my grandmother;
An act as old as me- but cruel memory!
This is a resting place,
Mere fabric, not reality
Fabricated photography;
Hardly voluntary
Time!
Cruel wicked bastard!
Not our fathers' son
The eraser hunting the Word,
The Word that pens creation
From the eroding mountain tops
To the depths of memory
The erased, the undone
The forgotten evaporating
Rising up to make new rain
So mountains will be afraid
The day is short, the rest is rain
The rain that closes roads
Is the rain that is time that is death
Walking in circles, seeking nothing
Walking and walking until we lose breath
Lose the photography,
And breath is become voluntary
Lose the photography
And life is become voluntary
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