stop here—meet the snow
and the premonition of the old
the young the beautiful and the
secret desires that shape us

be it the people the means
the drugs the drinks the leaves
that blow past your favourite
pair of shoes worn like old souls

through the irony that built
the strange sunday we made
yesterday out of the empty
glasses and bad receipts
that tell the rest of the story
that we confined to the inner
depths of our intertwining

flickering shells of streetlights
that glow that survives against
the long rainstorms
careening down valleys
that quickly euthanize themselves
in a false retreat towards life

                               (still, in the distance, there—
                                something that still seems so far away)

life comes in a constant cycle
beneath the shadow of my step
it grows and takes me into its grasp
so vile yet so soft like a satin sheet

and beneath its fabric veil, it lay:
a mirror image of myself,
o, it speaks to me
this doppelgänger upon me
who moans and weeps mine name,
in its increasingly painful grasp

who is this culprit in mine home?
illuminated by the desert moonlight,
unlike nights of neon and pavement
in its post-death wander across time:
but for where does he go?

glimmering and fading
those lights we rever
walking down the familiar
concrete path with
the mad smells and the
mad tourists and the mad
everything

homebound with every step
i take in them and there
i abolish my fading memory
that lay distant, longing for
the moment where the
world gets it right and
understands for once

so we don’t have to
be angry anymore

i am smooth marble upon the floor
(yours to destroy, shape or shatter)
that breaketh with the weight of thy hand
chipping away upon thy sacred block
with thirty-six visions in mind of beauty

the beauty you cannot shape me to be
as i—the marble you carve—wither away
and feign death at the weight of thy hand

one day i will awake and depart
this earth the same day i lived it all
the end, the call, the distance, the whine
i go and make my last tireless journey—

all there along with the glowing light
all in the face of the end of this life—

the painted dawn will make up
for lost time between dream and day
like an unkind roar at the commencement
of my last forsaken night—

bold and unbound; in brash movements
again the night seeks my soul—

there was a shade of blue seen in no eye
no bottle, frame or stroke of oil ******
upon thy mysterious moving canvas—

and though i cannot paint your skies
the exact shade of blue you dreamed of
the kind you yearned for, so much so
a blue so deep it shamed the ocean floor
a blue so bright it left the sun in cowardice
a blue so mixed and right one could look
and almost absorb its sugary sweetness—

a blue to remember
in another day and time—