Fodder And all the meanings of that word. Is that all you were to me? Fleeting. Burnable. Expendable. Some free manuscript for prose I wish I knew not how to write. For in writing it means I have lost you. And if I’ve lost you than you were nothing but grains of sand in the wind. So again I ask.. Why? Why must I meet you through the thick, grimy, sinewy muck that is consciousness. In such a way that our brisk hello and goodbye were like silk. If you were nothing but pain in my mind and a thorn in my side. Why then must I ever have met you?