I am overwhelmed by inanity, like this post.

Pretty Tale

When you find yourself at the beginning of a narrative, do you tie with remembrance the sound and the fury of your times past?

I often catch my own little narratives stealing through the dark, creeping, crawling, crossing like cunning fugitives into a plot and to-morrow, the last lines of which have been eternally known and sung and fulfilled, while the first ones of which are perfectly beautiful, like perfect truth, and for that reason are never sought for, nor found by doing so.

The road I could still see

Although I'd wished the one I then took
And she with me had likewise stood
Two roads converged in our drying wood
And I, I took the one less understood
To see that it made no difference.

Over a glass of red wine

As you say with a smile that slides

Down to your breasts, and the

Promise of pearls then, to invite

Into burning eyes those heavens left,

Empty lives filled with the noise of laughter.

By and By

Off to what and is to like

When the who of where to make

Vagabond

Lawless in propositions boundless

In velleities

Walking through the ins and ons of days

... .. ...

I feel unsatisfied