I thought I met a reflection

But coffee only flows down my back

Alone as it burns

All I have remembered

Is your chaos

As I’m crucified in cold winter nights

I thought I would open a door

And let my soul pour out

From my pale palms

All I have to recall

Is the brief glance

A friend from years ago

I go on

As the boxing crushes my head

My art is dead

As all the fury is dying tonight

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.02.02.01:54:00@NYNJ