i saw the little bird flutter
dance from dropper to dropper
and the image fades in the clouds of smoke.

Nay, the lines show on my worked hands,
the trouble in life,
where i stand...
this line i drew in the sand is nothing like the life in lines
read in palmistry
or the scars emotionally
those that developed, enveloped and disappeared
as a decade passed into another year.

my reflection in the mirror changed,
the migraines are no longer the inspiration that drives me.
on auto pilot, driven by fire, flames were fanned and told to flourish.

now there will be a change in the line up
because ****-up-to-****-up there is no other way
i could say how much more in less than the 8 hours a day--
of work, of solitude, once i which came of use to?

well life, if you are a mirror,
then *******! i was told i was done too...

with the ashes settled, i'm at home.
he is still a little wobbly, a little toddly, and oh the  "NO!"
into the cabinets i find, a flicker of life,
desire,
****-- i am sold.
i found out what in the world...
i am here for.

Sixty, ***-ti.... i cannot form a single thought,
a heartfelt thought and ones of revenge
as the heater went out, and it being colder than the fridge--
i saw that little bird, fluttering,
Still

life seemed to start again,
with a push of a button
go
with all the carnival rides
flavors, and gimmicks.
i cant quit.