Crack in the door.

Looking like Apocalypse Now.
He tips his hat.
Reaching to his catacombs.
Why are you here.
Why did you see.
Me.
Who has the fix for you.
& Me.
Disturbingly solemn.
Wearing plaid.
Lips black.
Tar for the door.
Thought of all natural.
That is the thought that counts.
But never accounted for.
Looking in.
To see only a picture.
Of a reel that'll last until I do.



Garrett Johnson.