a formulative sketch of a poem. i laid the foundation today in ethics.

an apology to brennan

Your tassle hung low over your face and covered the singular tear tributary trickling from pessimistic and reminescent eyes - the one on the right to be exact. And you told us all you were fine. You saw the winding uphill track and realized your arthritic limbs could not carry you through this knee-scraping, asthmatic marathon. But we thought that you were fine. Then you choked on bitter dust from our pounding feet as we forged ahead and left you breathlessly wishing for a shortcut to your own demise. And we told ourselves you were fine - just a little slow that's all. Then you sat down and jammed a needle in your arm and rode the wave of self-pity tears off the cliff. You ended up in Chicago shaking a gun in his middle-aged face because you found your needle empty. And we thought that you were on vacation. And you thought about your needle as you bent iron bars in your mind. And we knew that you were alone, and gone. And we knew you were not fine. And our tassles hung low over our faces and covered the singular tear tributaries trickling from angry and undeserving eyes - the ones that watched you die to be exact.

And we are so sorry.