large beer, with time to
waste. gulping in hopes
at abating stagnant
feel of current existence.
cold and clear night with Spring
hiding 'round the corner
ready to stab out perpetual
cycle for existence. such a
shaming from titled time-
spanse of weather by its
coming and going without
even illusion of choice.
(suppose the Universe never
had a major role in Romanticism)
suppose space will never find
need for periods defined through
titles; suppose man finds
comfort in definitions and syllabic
expression. haikus are, after all,
a buffer between worlds.
digressing with another cigarette,
knowing shouldn't what with
breath being true connection of
worlds. quality of being alluded
to quality of connection and a
vessel's sense of existence.
then, taking time to inhale,
knowing breath given finds
caustic continued life. realizing,
a drowning man cares naught for
quality of final fighting gasp.