Untitled - July 15, 2001

Like the torrential rains
of spring
the flood of pain
batters against
the crumbling banks.

There is nothing 
that holds me here.

Nothing that ties me
to this life.

My clothing -
hath become that of the 
collective.

My life -
exists to bend to the will -
of another,
and that is not me.

My existence
is but a flutter
in the sands of time.