I carry a
concrete cross
on my back
in a field of gravity
that attracts like a red sun.
Personality is magnetic,
like love, like sin,
sucks everything in
to it's core.
Roses come with thorns,
rainbows with rain,
and lovers, they bring pain.
Where ever I travel, it follows,
like my shadow at night,
like a charismatic moon
that can sway the tide.
Do I nail it to a tree?
...or wipe it out
like a race.
It dwarfs like a mountain,
imposing it's grand presence.
Do I climb it?
I sacrificed it all to be a king
that rules a kingdom
of missing persons
where nobody's home
and absenteeism's at an all-time
high.
Now it's just me,
that weathers
under seething sun rays
in a relentless wind
so gradually to sand, to ashes,
to dust...
...like
an ego eroding.
St. Mountain,
I am
© 1999 by David Bozzi |