A.N. - This is not really like anything else I've written. I'd call it steam of consciousness, but it has a motive in there.


Don't know what to want,
lost and groping and all
that was appealing no longer is
like it was before,
shiny and new and oh-so
frightening, alluring
now dull, faded away
buried in the dunes
no shovel can reach,
no map will point out
like the little spot
neglected in the back
of the mind so long
it's rusted over, caked
with grime, looking
for the scouring pad,
begging -
Please, wash it away.