Shaken

The heart's wretched pace... No one likes to see the sad clown. Even more disturbing: The man "taking notes" as he walks. I can't write my way out of my problems. I draw the line straight off the map And my arm falls off the table. And then the brood-reflect on the fall... I'm still walking. I'm still falling. I'm still writing. I no longer feel my clown make-up. A night's breeze blasts against me, Blushing through the yellow streetlights, A torrent twisting into wisdom.