an unacustomed emotional decay

The desk comes up to me and tells me
to stop writing on him, he tells me
to stop fraying his edges, that old
oak desk screams at me that I need
to get a f u c k i n g life.

So I travel far in search of myself.

Soft consciousness summoned
intently with the origins
of a delicious warming
icily reflected off the crimson
mountaintops of Northern British Columbia.

I travel far in search of myself.

"Fly far!" I told the rock as
my arm stretched back and it
took flight across the sky into
the cool blue depths of that vast
and lonely lake.

My pillow is a poor substitute for the
warmth and comfort of your delicate arms.

I travel far, wishing I could find a way.

(c) May, 2000, Steven H. Lee