We could say we’re here and there when we are not together.
On each other's minds regardless of the whether.
We should be side by side or a thousand miles apart.
If ever I should need you, I need only touch my heart.

I like to imagine each new day is like a fresh page in a book.
As the day starts it’s spiral down the drain, I rarely hold the quill.
I’ve always kinda just let it do it’s thing.
Because I didn’t care.
At the end of the day I skim back over the page.
I don’t read it, the events of the day are of no matter to me.
I’m just looking for your name.
As long as when I look, I can find you there.
I don’t have to tear that page out.

And just as the morning sun forages through the forest floor.
Like it’s looking for a dropped contact lense.
So too I, a mercenary of reason. Waking and trudging through each day.
Starved for purpose. Understanding.
Instead I’m asked to just choke it down. The hypocrisy, the indignant righteous illusion of free will.
Tongue scraped with charcoal. To the point I question whether or not.
Would it not serve me better to just bite down on my own throat?
To clench my teeth and pull back just far enough to watch the light fade from my eyes.
A poem like the ghost of a memory that was never real. Floats just out of reach.

I envy the preacher and shaman. I envy their faith and their flock.
Those deluded non sensical *******, just running down time on the clock.

I adore the rabbi and lama, the beards and the tans are the tops.
And whenever I want to party, the imam is pulling no stops.

They live in worlds of certainty, where convictions are set in stone.
While I’ve been somehow left to wander my world all alone.

While others were able to forgive a world that can’t be rationalized.
I got stuck, became enamored, and now I’m pasteurized.

So I’ll laugh until my eyes bleed from staring at the sun.
And if we meet again one day we’ll say “yeah well that was fun”.

There runs a path just to the north where wrinkled giants stand.
A thorny worm as it were that yields upon a river.
There’s not much light along the way.
It’s too sad a place for the sun.
Ancient ghosts whisper their tales along the riverbanks.
There are those that visit here once.
The sad ones.

They tell me to write what I know.
Pen out the feelings inside.
Well I’ve been holding this quill and smoking all night.
And I think that I’ve already died.

It’s like reaching into a vase.
And finding nothing is there.
Cold blind hands scraping the walls of nighttime in a bottle.
What’s worse is I can’t even care.

So I put the vase outside to soak.
And watch it grow cold in the sun.
In the fall it fills of death, in the summer it’s colors will fade.
And sadly no where to run.

A moment unknowingly waits.
This vase will surely break.
From water and mud it came, to ash and dust it’ll be.
It suffered for sufferings sake.

Fingers dragged kicking and screaming across an illuminated dance floor as if this were some new age line dancing competition for people who have no idea what they’re doing.
That’s what this is.
It’s like being asked to sculpt out a scene from MacBeth in jello using a chainsaw after doing blow with a hyena who has a grudge against HR over the comprehensive dental plan.
Do you see where I’m going with this?