I thought it was always the right measure
I’d notice how they had everything one could invent
It was as if an artist had drawn their pedigree
Yet it was darkness that the sun eclipsed
The life they lived was picked clean by the false messages they sent
To wake up to this realization was to know there was nothing left to find

I’ve learned that a place-setting once was life itself
When the news traveled slowly the time was spent on finer things
Now we quarrel and abandon the soft edges
But you must know that a pillow exists in my heart
Where you may lay your head close to whisper of the birds of spring
The walls still stand strong all around paying my reticence no mind

I’m sure you will be alright either way
I have not heard of any true calamity in my absence
And though I could never deny
That I’m as common as a yellow can on the shelf
And that I’ve never once felt that nerves immobilized you in my presence
I’m filled enough with life to strike fear into the silence I might leave behind

Indifference is not an act of desperation
To allow time to pass swiftly by without so much as a wave
Is to trust that fate loves as much as I do
And the wind I feel upon my face is upon yours as well
Let us find ourselves my love as it is sanity that we must first save
For I cannot take your hand without first knowing if you are my kind

When men brought him the Pandora's box, guns, the angel of "light,"
The "innocent and perfect" of all love, armed himself to the teeth,
To bestow such "safety,"  around children when armed, allows us to risk
The lives of all while the just "feel safer" having one, "less likely harmed,"
He is enlightened of all things and kills to survive, lives by the sword,
But "can not die, will not die." He is the advent of all this and more,
And he started this practically perfect way of staying safer in order
To find more "dangerous targets," even children, to shoot at in war.

My consumption is somehow sinful but in a fabricated way that makes honey seem like cyanide, or perhaps just the opposite (, I'm not sure in truth). Delight is suppressed by my self-skepticism working to root out my faithful and trusting naivete. Somehow skepticism gets lost in my incessant wanderings and wonderings and surely in my pensive ponderings. I debate what your truth is and if you have seen the same paintings that hang in my walls and in my memories. It must be acknowledged, the chance that you have forgotten and remembered the entire Nothing. My only prayer is that you might have insomnia.

Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor

To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,

Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,

Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads

So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date

"speak quietly"

ah, but how would the people
living on the scraggly edge
of the mountain cliff
ever hear us if we did?

I could have been lonely for those months
We barely talked
I could have stayed with myself and
remained, maintaining
Instead I got what I wanted
(almost)
and when that wasn't you
I found others.

Now here you are, here, you.
Telemiscommunications
why did I never expect this
I washed your blue face paint
from my eyebrows
Requiem