The amazing maze constructed out of old ideas and rotty themes has its grip on me.
My feet in still wet cement have to get some direction from the top, the Man in charge.
I’m going to cut in line to tell him that this is a metaphorical matter of life or death.
I hope and pray that he will anoint me with his special touch and show me a new way.

Fortuitously my appeal would be heard. Some winged figures issued me into his chamber.
But all I could hear was a growly old man behind a green curtain that was suddenly invisible.
And the wiggly “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” Man or god, I now have
The courage, the brain, and the heart to find my own way. It’s an old path, to my home.

Vultures swoop in within seconds of the demise, talons already sharpened and at the ready.
Distant cousins become inconsolable over the loss of their favorite unknown uncle.

The gold and diamond ring was promised to me, said the once-removed daughter.
She always told me that I could have her flat-screen TV, the landlord told anyone who would listen.

Tears are shed at the memorial banquet, where the knives are kept in the cupboard just in case.
A dead man is worth his weight in gold. Everybody’s dream. Where there’s a will…