The Come Down

I ride out my days
without the spur and climb,
the loss or sadness.

But yet, I am melancholic
in my yearning for the controllable
things I spun in my violent harp,
musically dusting each fingertip
with the destruction of
my own body.

But ride out I do,
into the rose bouquet of intuition.
The single mindset needed
for a change of time, pace and
neurological exchange.

I'm not out of breath-
as I once was, wheezing in the
twilight hour of my lost memories,
hopes that suffered, dreams that
intoxication brought
in a millennial evening.

Euphoria in a second,
draws in days.

Riding out
Has a new connotation.