i wish i could strike myself deeper so my ink could flow.
the rages and shallowparts that lie in our culture fight to survive.
descending to feed on our senstive skin-
i wonder again at the way some fly and some crawl.
it was like this. two people spoke that day
words tied together with myth to make stories...
One heard,
the other forgotten.
The unheard followed
the ways
of the drunkards
the other rose to great heights and
laughed when men stumbled.
both died.
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i have long envied the writers of myth and dreamed of living in ancient times so my words would shape our most primal memories
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