The cold air of an autumn
night dreams of me
coming out tonight.
I know it's not right and it might sound absurd,
but a beautiful crime
is creeping up my mind.
I've done it before
and I'll do it again, because visual words
are more gratifying than those of a pen.
Old school heads say its dead,
because the new kids on the
block are making bread.
But the story behind the words
doesn't matter tonight, as I pick up
some cans and show a wall some light.
copyright 2004 kristina lopez
