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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Biographical · #1817646
something i wrote last night about my image in the mirror on my commute from work.
I looked like my father last night.
I had lost all my preferred colored
amidst future famine lackluster.

My desire to ramble about unlimited budgets
went southward, yet I definitely
recognized my plight.

Surviving in Essex...Masada...
turning swords into plowshares.*
Covered in amber without being alerted.

Perhaps the walking dead's "trivia" really is
" What happens after social decay"?
Reconsidering crossings of the Raritan river?






*Isaiah 2.4
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