Incoherent

I am almost always angry these days, a

failed whatever it was that I was. I wake up early

in the mornings, before the sun, and

go collecting pebbles. Desiderata, of grand lives

stuff left over while constructing roads.

You know, it is difficult to keep track of

things when you are drunk, an alcoholic. Disintegration

is a beautiful word. Do you see

your idols crumbling in front of your eyes? So many

truths turning into lies? I will be

There for you.

 When did you last see me? Was it before or after

they pronounced my soul dead? I cannot

remember, so they must have been right, but I

still collect pebbles, desiderata of grand lifes. What you and I

could have been.

Such an attractive phrase. So much disappointment there.

Like a road that leads nowhere. You. I.

Bracketed by unfulfilled promises.