miscellaneous trappings of friday evening

I am betting everything

all of it

on chance.

I find myself plying through this

pilgrimage

back to you…

back to what we knew…

alone;

waiting for love, but

in the wrong place,

the wrong time…

i know better.

spring seems to know more about…

well, everything

than I do..

the answers to most of these questions

wrapped in her rainfall,

splashed about in the puddles she leaves behind…

tracked across my life,

mud

and yet I still find myself

fighting destiny,

swimming upstream against the tides of fate

ignoring the cold plain truth:

“some poets are born

to burn down Oz from the inside.”