Stretched thin
Tanning on a machine made for making
A person into currency
that his mind can spend on passions
But my balance is unknown
Inaccessible, frozen
Overdrawn into pieces
that have not been sketched correctly
And whose shapes do shape a cone
Through the tip of which it's draining
Bubbling, complaining, blaming all the others
For the fate it calls its own
It puddles on the pavement
Where gravity refuses to offer
Further instruction
It evaporates
But it doesn't have to
It could freeze or boil or flow
It just needs to find direction
Its own direction
Go.
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