When history crosses my path
I look away and remember.
The spring brown grasses
are written on my face:
death was in the air
and life is every step.
Natural language is
as oxymoronic as
bittersweet while
still possible;
it's not the street
I'd like to cross.
I've strayed from the days
when I curled up in a closet
to finish that genre fiction
whose protagonist
rode magic waves
to another satisfying end.
To be continued,
stronger and more convinced,
it ruined me.
Up and to the right always forgets
that the night's cap
is a short glass
then dreams that lead to forgetting.
Roman Ryan 