From cursory glances
To stillborn second chances
40 comes raining down like a fist
You're caught in the tall blades
Of all those mistakes made
Aching for comforts unkissed

Turning and turning
Like the slow soup you're burning
Is nothing held sacred anymore?
Questions ring silent
Then die with the pilot
While you ask what is dreaming good for

burnt soup offerings
august 15, 2005