Blood Letting Go

Drained by the healing solution this vertigo subsides while the end rises like a new year’s resolution – singular goal damned to failure as there was something faulty in the process: the lack of habit, commitment, integration. It disintegrated before my eyes, the flash a phenomenon that taps the brain’s store of autobiographical memories as hypoxia and blood loss offer new traumas to be lived down or up in poems. Lies or fictions depends on one’s point of view – character assassin (you leach!) or authority on nothing save the goodbye. You become dramatic. Drama doesn’t become you. One last gasp: I am, indeed, sorry. Can you forgive?