inside of me a storm rages
inside of me an old man has a stroke
inside the fire blazes
fresh bricks of burning coal

there is emptiness in me
and it fills me up
so much so

i drown everyday
drinking up a cup
of nothing but the old

made of memories
mostly bad, but some good
adding to them each day
naught but rotting wood

and your family
termites
and your friends
pests
and your lover
a lumberer

i am a butterfly
dreaming as a man
i am war's passion
crimson like blood let
and the dove
labored by his own beak;
the last breathed breath

when its later in the day
do our definitions matter,
or how we saw things?
when what we did
is what has been done
and at last
we've run our run
does it matter
who we were
or of us, that had become?

all is forgiven
in the setting sun