From the bowels of depression
grow sepia buildings tall...

With those blood stained hands
you captured world attention...

An innocent used
to disperse propaganda...

With sandals and beards
the Mozart lovers huddle...

Winter
cold and frosty mornings...

Outside my window
a man and his dog stroll by...

Perhaps I have become
immune to inclement...

This is who I am...
my hands tremor to the point...

A snow-pregnant sky,
threatening to give birth...

Destination nowhere
your brain's new address...

Final Entry 1st April 2008:-
..."I am the forgotten one...

Varnished lies o'er wooden door
dust unsettled on sinful floor...