THe Pits 

 On a library balcony at the edge of the world, cigarette smoking glowing.
 Crickets chirp, sing merrily deafly blindly, their familiar tune.  
 Dark clouds fill evenings pale blue sky at the edge of suns ray; 
 the distinction is insignificant. "You're killing that tree, small as it
 may be, you're killing it" says nothing to noone behind a vacant wall. 
 But the crickets here nothing.  They already know what life is, and death.

 The dark clouds flash brightly, every edge border and boundary made
 distinct.  The silence persists.  Nature knows not to disturb the peace.
 In silance and solitude, the cigeret grows dim and fades.     

 Suddenly saddened by my past; how suprising that the tears flow from my eyes; it meant more to me than I thought.
 

 I floated through the air in an inner-tube, across meadows and mores, along grassy hill sides. 
 At once, I slipped from the tube and began my rapid descent to the ground some fifteen feet 
 below.  A friend caught me by the arm,  set me back on my seat.