Things have changed, I can
no longer sit here, study and
wait. Something irate lurks deep
within. Ash flakes tumble off of me. 
Dostoevsky slathers the black
shadows I see. I cannot eat,
drink, nor seldom think. But
the bloom comes at an odd hour
later, when I am covered in light
petals forecasting the beautiful
innocence we are all licensed to, but
conceal lately. What must I do to make
it work? I can feel the life course
through my limbs. I am eager--
hopefully it will work. My train of
emotions is broken--I pay dues
with funds I do not have. What is
my plan, where is my strength?
I want a loan I cannot pay back,
I want to lacerate my pride into
threads of waning colors, unapt
to be put back together. I am
stirring--I, an ill-bred lout
with words like kicked-up dirt 
stinging, suffocating those riding
my trail.