Fading midwinter light meets shifting strands of deathly hues
And the last cries of the day melt into a blurring vision
'Twas but a confrontation common to the daily grind, The kind of exchange that runs through you and floats away...
Enchanted, mystic lament stirs me from slumber,
Vanishing dreams of sweet success with abrupt reproach.
Growing up, I knew it was fairly inevitable that at some point in my not-too-distant adult future I'd be forced to come face to face...
It was sad to hear this past week of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide at his home in Woody Creek, Colorado...