Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11... It's gone too far. Peace cannot breathe air into the waters. Love’s unable to recover from its suicide. Torture and war; their oppression, failing too. Goodness pushes its scent like a petal’s breath in the wind. The clock reads 11:11? What’s "too far"? The scent; a reminder of her beauty. Eleven eleven. That’s too near. A mirror for love to hold. I’ll need more time! My reflection, my fortune, full Love. I’ve gone too far. My regret, my sadness, my complicity. Yes. M y greed, my lovelessness, my death. Something is coming. Haze trippin’ in the morning- s omething’s going to happen. ... November the eleventh, twenty-eleven, not horrific, but tragic nonetheless... II-II-II. IIIIII. IIIII. IIII. III. II. I. Too many I. Perhaps I arrived a minute too early or late. (Perhaps I forgot what came after eleven?) Steak knife, orange, half
(The Weaver's Song)