Here it comes—that Familiar feeling, that Pounding in my chest, that Pulsing in my head, that Last-straw sensation of Life-blood burning as it Flows beneath my skin. What do you want, soul? Why do you pine For things as fleeting as wind? Beneath your wing, what is there but Flittering pieces of a reputation, And make-shift strings Tethering only remnants of their Care and affection?
6 October, 2019