Crash

In this long form fight

Where writers beg and die

For long evenings out

And even longer rounds

Of grueling back and forth

Just to ignite their own imaginations

With fiery grandeur and lights

This

Is neither mine

And certainly not a calling

Nor divine right to be

Is simply is

And it is me

I end it all with both short jabs and wild flies

Like a comet arch crashing into victory on the inevitable tracks of a locomotive let loose

Crash