Poison Pen Letters (1)
I awaken each morning, death staring at my face through the eyes of a
baleful mirror. His frosty glare echoes in my mind as his laughter
repeals my grip upon my soul. Chaos ferments in in dusty streets
where vagabonds loiter, stark sentinels watching whilst biding their
borrowed time.
These are the constants through which my time is measured, life's
leisurely pace contrasting with my frantic need. I feel my freedom
within my grasp but know not its nature. Life seems so full of
constraints and the thought occurs that perhaps there is only one true
freedom, the price unknown until one has delivery.