Homeward, Angel

If you can find the way home, 

That is 
It is my observation that the sanctioned novelists, the next best greats, seem to prefer the personal account of angst, a rendering of ego.

But what’s there really left to say?

He can’t stop being those selfish things 

She’s adrift 

Close to 

The abyss 

Of drowning in 

What one statement surprised her 

The scar tissue so calloused by now on the seams of her heart

A cop out 

No really 

My cup runneth over


I cannot 


It’s an unfamiliar extravagance

Magnanimous Dreamscape

If what

What ifs 

In the end 

Where to begin?