I wonder,
"Has anyone ever mentioned unto you:
  that your eyes shine more- vibrant-
  than a blood moon in the high,
   eastern skyline?"

My cigarette smells of waffles and syrup..
and I cannot pinpoint- precisely- why.

Wow! Has it ever been such a long-
period of time since
I've tasted a pastry or pie?
As of late, I've just consumed fermented rye.

I ponder, my mind begins to stir up,
  thinking up some sort of reasoning:
  an explanation for the subtle scent.

"Dear, cigarette company;
    have you been seasoning
    your smokes with some sort of awful,
    syrup and waffle, flavoring?
   If you have, I've not been favoring-
    the taste in my lungs."

"I, frequently, find myself ponder-
ing: what it is other people are wonder-
ing, or if they have began wander-
ing from their, once, true path in life,"

he laughed, while taking a bath,
down by the Boulder.

"&: when, precisely, did it happen?!
Yes! It is true that I have spent 
many, magnificent, moons squander-
ing the wealth of my place in this space..
I consume certain substances that others
find distasteful. Yet: within the maunder-
ing, I find a very subtle peace; know-
ing that we will all, inevitably, be go-
ing to find solace in the final slumber.

Nothing we do is flawless.

   -

Maybe once we're all gone:
may the 'livestock, produce, and lumber'
florish, fully, once again."

he was bowed next to the Boulder,
coughing on a cigarette of cannabis,
when he caught the crouched cougars eye.

As the joint, jittery, smolder -ed,
his mind was left in blurred bliss.

Just then: began to fly, forward - 
the chiseled cougar.

With a flask full of gin,
I think up hymns
about her.
If I am a bird,
she is the nest
that I wish to rest within every night.

The Waterfall of Angst pours over me,
swiftly, as my speed drops to sixty.

I came into town to get my car,
all, clean: so that, (maybe)
this evening, I don't have to use
whiskey - to polish up my mind
 & make it a serene- place to be.  

Hell, I don't even drink whiskey.
Gin or ale is much more suitable for me. 

Loathing the fact that I must go 
and exchange silver quarters,
for their quadruple counterpart,
just to get the ****'d
pressure washer to start.

While avoiding faces I know
  in the local mart,
  I begin to question when it begun:
  this love/hate relationship I have
  for each, and every, one -
   that I have passed by -
   or know of. 

  --

I finally possess full coin dollars!
Release the wrath of the rains and oceans!

"Hey!" I hear a man holler,
"These soapy potions- contain no ******!
   Come back tomorrow, if you must-
   to soak and unsmudge
   your bucket of rust!"

Oh! The sorrow!

"But, my dear friend!
  I cannot return after this night's moon;
   for death: it, certainly, shall come soon!
  I don't believe I can pretend- that I will
  ever return to the Waterfall of Angst again!
No! No! I don't have the strength."

  --

He gave me a length- ly stare,
obviously pondering if he dare -
ask questions regarding my answer.

As he opens his mouth,
I scamper off into, sweet, seclusion
where my heartbeat can steady
& continue living my delusion.

With smoke hanging- no!- lingering,
upon his cracked and chafed lips:
he, blankly, gazed off into nothing.

Suddenly: he's wincing, possibly picturing-
no!- pondering the way life drips-
no!- dribbles by, and away, with everyday.

Into a slumber, he, gently, slips:
unto a place where no soul may infringe-
upon his right to dream about her rays.

"More magnificent than the creator, itself," they say.
Yes!- Beautiful as an old mountain range
when she sings out syllables with those lips
- ever so confident and casually.

If only in this slumber, he could stay:
to lie asleep and dream about her all day.
Alas, reality surely soon, forcefully, rips-
no!- tears him away from his desired place.

Oh! Wouldn't it be something- (beautiful)
to arise to her, blushing whilst, nudging-
his ribs with her fingers?

Such a beautiful script,
his dreams are avidly depicting;
it makes his real life seem, quite, sickening-
really.
But: he tries to stay optimistic about it.

The serpents I once feared, 
have become, very, near & dear-
to me. In fact, now, upon the vaneer-
of my flesh- are their portraits portrayed-
in ink. I am slithering with the best-
of them, with my silver tongue flicking.
I begin dissecting, or picking,
like a crow disembodying
his morning meal of rancid road ****, 
away at each and every thought within.
I begin, to attempt to make such-
dark noises sound like a blissful sing-
ing.

Surely- it isn't so! 
These feelings that come, and go,
as I stumble, stagger, to and fro
from the nest where my head rest 
and my place of labor: a place where-
I attempt to be a saviour for-
 my future seed: from poverty. 
If only I were to win the lottery.

Things are often quite the blur.
Though, some days- every blue moon-
  I become so fluent with my words.
Though I feel, as though,
  I've bypassed some important detail. 
Tomorrow, I may be slow as a snail-
  or as dense as a stone on the river bank.
So, I would like to apologize, pretense-
  if I fail to stimulate your soul.
To all of you listening, Thanks.