Saturday 3/20/2010 01:16:00 AM

Her dead flowers. Her broken roses. Play with the curtain. As she exits the stage. The audience. Is processed through their outrage. In careful doses. She tries on the needle. In obvious medications. She lets herself get worse to prove them wrong.

But no one notices.

She says the world as we know it is over. You can't win. They won't let you. That dream you've been fed is just that. A dream. Not real in any practical sense. She remembers once understanding the politics. If not agreeing. At leat condoning the wisdom.

But it works its way down. Not up. This toil. This servitude. It has only one direction.

She's not poor. She's not homeless. But it's obvious. They want everything. And they're determined. To take it.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.