The flow of the split-brain soup.
Whiskey.
Bright, brown, sweet and cool.
Slandering through mounds of fluff.
I can see the windows, dirty, that shed the light.
Old days and new expectations.
Little Italian Fella.
Set of dice.
Some chaotic interaction.
Now, things have altered.
As they should.
As they must.
Like the Lady in the Sky.
Who too has come to earth.
We all remember the flights.
Of passion.
Of Moments.
I begged you to stab me.
My old friends, like the old me, are gone.
Dead as Dillinger.
We all move on.
We all alter.
Grow.
And, if we have lived right, even a bit, the passing is something to morn.
But Only Slightly.
For the new life is something to embrace.
All that about when I was a child and now that I am a man and all that.
So the old leaves and the new starts.
Good.
Fine.
Some things are not meant to roll forever.
All dice stop.
There is always a number.
Even if you never see it.
All truths and all ends.
As I hear it.
The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long.
Again, fine.
But it still reminds you of what you already knew.
That it is all a faded joke.
But at least it is still worth a chuckle.
The Hot Little Things in life cool off.
Or they seek other sources of warmth.
One should be thankful for the burn marks they leave.
I am.
I will always be.
Hell. As long as I have know the way I live,
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.
And that thought, the effort I was going to feel,
Made me smile.
As I do now.
As I will long after the Chimps all leave the trees.
