When I grow old, I shall put seven cents in my pocket and give it to strangers.

I shall embark upon a journey and peddle soft, warm words that fill empty bellies and soothe tattered psyches.

I shall set up a travelling stand where the only currency we accept is memories, used and reused and sold bottled up fresh in old cans of soda.

I shall become known and unknown, even unknowable as I weave my way through threadbare mountains and ribboning streams and sing gentle songs with whatever words you’d like to hear.

I shall collect river rocks, smoothed with time and ancient expressions which I will attempt, futilely, to divine.

I shall carry all of my compliments in the stitches of my shawl and discard the insults on the ground, crumpled bits of refuse decaying in my wake, then pull my garment ever tighter such that the cruel litter may not reach me at all.

When I grow old, I shall find seven cents in my pocket given to me by a stranger.

The happiness falls like rain
Only to drip through my outstretched fingers
Turning to the inevitable, inimical, immutable mud of you.

I dredge through this monotony so often that it becomes routine
The muck which traps me so wholly feels natural
It flows like a river.

And then I remember you and I am frozen
The boulders which obstruct my path double in size
And I slip beneath your filth.

I watched the roofs of the buildings
The turrets, spiraling
Fresh August.

I closed the window
The noise, overwhelming
Metallic singing.

I lay in the bed
The city, wailing
Blanketed shouting.

I woke in the morning
The ground, sinking
Unstable standing.

I have built unto you an empire,
Do not leave, I entreat;
Stay here for still longer.

These halls which I have made,
Dwell in them, I beg;
Remain here for some while.

I have built unto you a castle,
Do not depart; I urge;
Live here for such time.

These turrets which I have drawn,
Linger upon them, I beseech;
Rest here for this spell.