+all work and no play+

Advancing through the rust-colored cassia fields
Like Aurora (the Sleeping Beauty) and the spindle
           my finger is pricked upon an offshoot
           from the plant's casing.
Trickling slowly at first; then a heavy, heady flow
           On and on and down does it go.
The aphrodisiac left behind is the remnant of the
           space once taken
           The ghosts
           of what once were
A pale, quivering digit rises; Nay, stretches
           towards the Heavens
Some pathetic attempt to etch
           my name on the fabric of reality.


           Of this, I write. Five years in the future.