In the fall, when the leaves were just barely turning, I wrote you a song.
I sang to you that I'd bring you flowers at 4 in the morning
If you were ever sad.
That I'd walk to wherever you were.
When I sang it to you your eyes filled with tears
And that night you kissed me for the first time in a long time.
Months later
I brought you flowers
In the middle of the night.
You told me you were upset
And I walked to the store and got you roses.
You met me outside
Because it was cold and you didn't want me to walk so far
And on the drive to your house I watched the silvery light of the streetlights reach out to touch your face on the way by.
And that night
I proved to you that I meant every word I ever said or wrote to you
And you
Proved that you wanted me to
And that is why
I have hardly seen you since.

Soft shelter
I urge your preternatural
brigades of perspective
to ground my resignation
in some hypothetical
formation of inclined leisure
If I'm treading mere chance
in my hope then I urge you
not to simply humour me with
sly tomorrows assuring
optimism in the brittle molts
of days shrinking to reveal
solar aspirations
I'll turn my back
to the broken weather like
a naked sibling
There is nothing humourous
in humouring
though I've taken it
in self-destructive perpetuity
Tie me to the rack of realism
like Odysseus before the Sirens
I'll sigh and swallow
yet another new medication
one for soft shelter
in compounded sleep
where perspectives hide
and the chemicals of moods
long dismantled
congregate behind blindfolds of
destiny's clumsy executioners

Sometimes I'm afraid of everything

It happens when I loose my consciousness
and I can see only the hurdles on the road

It happens when I loose the trust
and I stop feeling

*Sometimes I am so weak that I think I need you

I am becalmed
adrift,
lost at sea,
with n'er a lighthouse to look for me.
Alone upon the rising swells, which will not break their voice to tell.
Endless horizons beckon me, yet no zephyrs fill my sail
No tears are cried, no lovers sigh, all colours lost and pale
No sun above, no moon no cloud, no star to guide me home.
Below me only silent depths, above me mourning veil.
I carry with me, broken hopes,  no one will ever need
And yearnings dreams and desperate prayers
No god will ever heed.
Islands which once held me safe
are behind but always near
and pain me now
When turning
and with clarity, remain unseen.

I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it.  Yet I'll hammer it out.*
             -Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I

The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white

A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom

Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with

And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom

Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?