Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

In Passing

You're pretty,
A youthful woman with no general direction,
Just floating around,
Like leaves in the wind.
You'll land in a pond of hope,
But it will have been polluted with oil and hate,
You will have suffered the brunt of it all.
You'll smolder,
Have yourself collapse upon yourself.
You'll weep yourself to sleep and
Never have the knowledge of why.
You'll die having loved others,
But never being loved by others,
And you will experience a rotten kind of bliss
In passing only.
Only, in passing.

May 17, 2004

*Written about myself.

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In Passing

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