The Shape of Things to Come

Hovering, breathless,

on the edge of desolation.

The egg cracks open.  

The shell is broken.  

It is but a token.

Of your esteem.  

I dream in monochrome.  

Somebody tell me

what I am supposed to do.  

What does your psychiatrist

really think of you?

I cry out, I kneel

on a beach of grey pebbles

and bleached bones.

Pleading with God

Won’t you take me

Won’t you take me home?

One Response to “The Shape of Things to Come”

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