the sign
an odd portent slips into my mind
its razor shaves my throats skin
it leads to a crash of mettle and woes
then its over as soon as its begin
much can be seen in its misty glass
its ice cold touch echoes pallid at my senses
and I feel alive in its soulful rapture
alive when I feel the pain it donates
this omen slips past me without a wordy look
ignoring my presence with a disdainful eye
it ogles back as if in the transit of engaging me
as if it was seeking my attention or assurance
it tramples a mean and lukewarm clod of turf
real purpose floats in on its sporadic amble
footprints too scared to impress the ground
lest they imbue themselves with the ghost of scorn
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