Something wicked this way comes
and no pricking to forebode it:
half-life of worry to presage,
beating of the foreign drums.
It’s all counting, it’s all trade,
beauty envied but not looked at.
Stuff back, shot-like, into boxes,
all the pretty dreams we made.
Hurting now, distance shattered,
we’re too close to feed our vision.
We lunge, retreat, fall out, regroup,
as if anything mattered…
findingtimetowrite 