It was the end of August and my words were taking flight
Twisting into rhymes that danced with every ounce of thought running out of my mind
And it's the end of December and my words are hiding out
As they're stuck in a maze racing for anything and everything cheesy
Because if you flip flop and rewind back to the height of September
It was a mid summer romance that bound my words
As things were heating up and taking awkward steps
My mind thought of nothing but ooey gooey romantic bouts
In a sleepless night I fell in love instead of falling to sleep
As a mid October party running on stumbled feet and knocked over glasses
I lost the room to the melody of your voice
And I'll forever keep a video captured in my mind
Cause as early January dawned
I chase most yawns with a quick lip lock like I imagined while carefully watching you capture my interest
And I hope as February hugs the romantics
We'll find laughter in the hypocrisy of these love stories dancing with  mediocrity
And walk a pace a little different
To the following months I can't write about because they exist as dreams
That I could bring justice to with witnessing each individual scheme

Your face
is
distorted
in my
screen.
It's
the clearest
image
I've ever
Seen.

We shift
Shuffling deadbeats
Wind south
Wind north

Biting to be
Filter the lungs
Breathe in the smoke
Fill in the guts

Consume me, consume me
Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw
Salivate static
Want, want, want

It’s no wonder we’ve grown endless teeth
Beneath our loveless grins

Can we even
Part the crowd
Anymore?

There are some people who like history as an interest or read it for a hobby, maybe go to reenactments and museums and such. Interested they may be in it, for those people history is still an external thing, dead and gone, merely entertaining or knowledge giving. For others, we experience the history and it becomes a part of who we are, the flavor of what we learn imprints itself somehow. For us, there is no such thing as an attic full of "stuff". There are attics full of stories, of connections between ourselves and what brought us here. The stories and pasts of others, are also reflections of our own.

Your lunar crescent dips
beside my tide, your moon glow lips, rippling,
slips me into a deep, watery sleep.
I am but a dancer beside you; your third eye glares into me:
spectacular stars in twilight;
swirls entrance like Starry Night in Van Gogh's day dreams.  

Come dream with me!
Come cleaner than the day you were conceived.
Show me the face that you had before you were born.
Closer, we combine the forces of nature: sublime.
We,  in One Self
unfold as the universe unfolds.

Sweet trinity, holy inspiration,
that those stars would gaze upon me,
and I those stars.