The non poemAmidst the chatter and defining drama, I stripped their worth like soaked dress in ocean storm. We pity those whose bodies breed decay, like spores they infiltrate. The ability to grieve lights a blazing none can contemplate. I am not kind even though the general propaganda will let you believe otherwise... petal falls from the tree ...knotted fingers fail to grasp beauty, she labours beneath heavy handed acquisition. This is not a poem, mere self-pity painting the conditions of my exile... as the outside permeates the membrane of self, I reel in anaphylactic ecstasy... Stuff un-slept minutes to the back of the closet, inhale the ghost of 1997...He says He loves me, it does not make him more real ...Once I wanted, once I loved ...why are all the lights still shining?