the wood floor a sea
of contradictions
wake there with a disassembled
sense of last night
the fragments of a womans kiss
lay there pink lipstick clinging to its vestiges
shards of a rain swept street
and the quiet of a november thunderstorm
pools of darkness uninterrupted by the wind
pieces of a man laughing without humor
this wood floor holds the key
but to discover truth in the
littered expanse of bottles
benith the layers of dust lain down
by the years
the wood floor becomes a trap
a puzzle prison
the mind grapples with