post-traumatic ruminations I'm listening to my orchestrated life an opera with the soul of a decrepit angel a hunched, grey figure in cold rains blood red jewels in his pale and clenched fist. nobody can say I haven't lived I've head the organs play and seen leaves fall. beauty die with the smell of lilacs fire in the sky over cornfields of dusk. sometimes, too much to bear, this life eyes weeping red ribbons and face turned away from broken rose tinted sunglasses. the light can be too bright.