Dear Reader,
I have wrested from the throat of mindless sickness some breath of dying incriminations. I send these limping gestures to you because I have no other ear into which to swear. I have lost all that I had, yet strangely I am pleased, for loneliness has fed me its bitter fruit. I know that you will eye these slates of glyph as if they were the utterings of a colloquy of mad prophets, all steeped in the murky waters of expressive dismay. Such might be the case, for I feel those who send us their inked fears suffer from maladies not of a physical nature. I leave it to you to decide if these fouled tongues deserve the moniker “prophet.” I would only caution you on one score: each of us cannot help but disembody his or her own future. I know you will understand. Have we not spoken in and of the past? What is left for us to do but write our own comings and the long forever goodbye.
Your friend of the wondering burden, Emile
Umbriate Press Poetry 