Thursday, July 26, 2007

Death by the Wayside and Other Solitary Lines

Death by the wayside, ghosts walking home.
Quietness in existence, noise on parole.
Unfathomed sanity, madness under control.

Light at the end of the tunnel is love.
The inimitable autobiography of a moment.
Life cannot be proved by mathematics.

Kisses or butterflies?
Polka dots or holes in a pocket?
Possibilities or probabilities?

No key to open the drawer of tomorrow.
No key to lock the drawer of yesterday.
Burning the candle at both the ends.

The ball of wool runs down the floor and untangles itself, breaks free from its carefully constructed tangles.
Let go.

Sheece Baghdadi

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