sitting after hours,
street lights glowing incandescently –
sifting through tinted & colored windows;
plants blocking some,
casting shadows of trickery –
illusions, illusions, illusions,
. . .
dance to & fro in flickering candle light.
stale smoke taints the air,
and softly music drifts up from the dance floor –
ticking of my watches beats a rhythm into my mind;
the wheels are turning,
thoughts streaming through emptiness –
decisions, decisions, decisions,
. . .
mind made up.
must face responsibilities,
must stand & “face the music” –
before, i would have sought easy outs;
i’m learning to “dance,”
i still trip & stumble –
suicide, suicide, suicide,
. . .
isn’t the answer. . .
wil becker
1995.11.11
