Future

The ink on my paper is but a scrawly panic of my embittered
sense,
The blood-juice from my crushed heart, has been bottled up to
Be cooled for a long age in a dark cellar, only to be poured away
Because of of its blackness.

My words are twisted and meaningless as they fall to the ground
Like A crumbling building, piece after piece so that the dust never settles

The future is surely more important than the past?