End of Transition
All through Space and Time balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s precarious rhyme, of an elusive design, that ponders down a bottle of a cheap red wine.
A nonentity it has become this trivial existence, but a small light switch, in this small small room, that must forever be left in darkness. The clattering sound of a telephone’s bell screaming echoes down the abandoned hallways of my mind; the hallways that were once filled with so many characters, and are now so, no more. Old forsaken dispositions like barbarians at the gates of Rome, deviously scheming in their packs. They fancy me dead; they desire me dead; I hear them, all of them. As their fate becomes mine… I don’t want to leave, I do not want to leave….