A lost intention follows
a misplaced adventure. Shadows
become detours, spinning webs of
emotional misery and absence.
Morning yells that we are older.
Our shoes are stories lacking souls.
We breathe in ripples and then blur out
our needs as we shed cloudy desires.
There is a fast lane of words we
believe we can change. Like
replacing a shirt or putting on a
hat, somehow hoping we can
shelve the pain as we try on
one skin and then another.
Roger Singer 