11-1-10

These days are colored in the Impressionist style. Today is fog, early persimmon; the subject a sick flower. I'm no more a little school girl, perfecting my cursive spelling words. But my fingers scroll the same. Recreating what looms for kill outside the heater-vents. Supplanting myself as frightened beneath pervading rain. Always running. I wasn't meant to be the savior - I'll leave that to God. Macabre and journal in hand, I'll document your downfall. It's what He made me for. If only the critics weren't shy.