The evil of last night, the echoing bang of a wandering pen. Why I often ask myself do I do these things, lay bare a certain bone, a haunting collage of meaningless colors, showcase neither sense nor substance, just a loneliness?
The simplest of answers is because like a dead leaf it fluttered down unfair, and upon a forest floor of rotting words and a miasma of might have beens there was in the end for all the miles an emptiness between truth and fang.
The wind may have stollen the hat, yet I'm still here in the wasteland, searching for it.