Life Only Makes Any Sense If We

He Is Spent. His Mind Is Mercury Again, Its Brief Surge Of Humanity Melting Into An Oily Residue On Its Surface, And He No Longer Understands The Feelings He Felt In That Strange Moment On The Overpass. But He Did Feel Them. They Did Happen. They Rest On The Murky Seabed Of His Mind, Buried Under Sand And Silt And Miles Of Grey Waves. Patient Seeds Waiting For Light.

In My Palm I Can Feel The Echo Of Her Pulse, Standing In For The Absense Of Mine.

I Sigh Inside, So Exhausted By These Ugly Questions, But When Did A Monster Ever Deserve Its Privacy?

Sometimes I Wonder If He Has A Philosophy. Maybe Even A Worldview. I'd Like To Sit Down With Him And Pick His Brain, Just A Tiny Bit Somewhere In The Frontal Lobe To Get A Taste Of His Thoughts. But He's Too Much Of A Toughguy To Ever Be That Vulnerable. - R On M

You Can Order Yourself To Treasure A Moment, To Cling Tight To A Feeling And Never Let It Fade, But It's Your Brain, That Three-pound Lump Of Hamburger, That Makes The Final Call.