Left of anything is a story.
I tell it to myself in my saner moments.
I drink it and bathe in it and
let it drain me of will and wandering.
Left of anything is a song.
I can't hear it,
but it can hear me.
I sing to it,
and I feel it smile nights
when the cold presses against my bare feet
and breath shudders bare against my scarred chest.
Left of anything is length.
But I am growing old,
and it stretches long,
too long, too long ...
Time bears away her young,
smiling over her shoulder at me,
beckoning me to follow.
Simply standing isn't enough,
for right of anything is peace,
and he's had enough and is ready for war.
Fractal art: Achillea's Heel by yours truly