Bogainvillea, groves of oranges. Stars are born, everything gleams. A weather change, shadows fall. New scent upon the wind- decay. Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings.
Death is a banker.
All of us are travelers lost, our tickets arranged at a cost, unknown but beyond our means. No postmortem journey is rife with more mystery then life. On the road that I have taken, one day, walking, I awaken, amazed to see where I have come, where I'm going, where I'm from. This is not the path I thought. This is not the place I sought.