Itís gouging and flowing over, like the rivers on stormy days.
Pouring like hot coffee,
but thick, as rich chocolate.
However, itís cause.....is just that...
Nothing so real.
Absent, but yet present.
Concrete like a book,
but so abstract, that you can not touch it physically..
It has a shell made out of you and I.
It has an impact you can see all around.
Itís composed of much,
but in the end, itís all alone.
Itís expressed differently, and unique to its holder.
Or is it?
It is cyclic like bicycle wheels in a marathon,
but it explodes by pressure, rather than a sharp point.
A battle unwinnable by self control alone,
but it is often a war fought solo.
The struggle is constant and relivable, but not a conscious choice.
As you start down the steps, itís right before you.
You see it there so minute, but growing.
So great and cumbersome,
that its legacy is so difficult to create.
Or will it ever be?
October 16, 2000