With or without again, the past is a specter
Whose only competition is the future.
Fear breeds contemptment, and idle hands
Make up words that might never see the
Light pages of a long dictionary.
Loose tips blink lips; a shut mouth
Is breathing from its nose.
Who owns what and how
Ought to disturb even the most
Out-of-touch mantle minds.
What fire furnishes this room,
Where living arm wrestles with
The anticipation of death.
Don't talk to me about passive
Choices, I let my environment
Do what it does, and my body
Is also the environment.
Roman Ryan 