I will die.
I am not yet dead.
I have come from nothing and to nothing will return.
There may or may not be a reason,
I will never know.
The great show is in full swing
but I am not the audience.
I am a thread on the arm of a chair
somewhere in the gallery
feeling the tension
,the spring of release,
as my inhabitant reacts.
Picture this: The crisp bite of autumn is in the air with all its oranges, yellows, and browns littering the rime-bitten grass. It’s a time of...