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Current mood:  contemplative
It could be a clerical error,
This glue that functions to hold the world together,
But apart worlds are are sliced and caressed,
Like new mothers breasts,
where milk is life,
A stereo experience that grows with the hearth,
sprouting towards the expectancy of a billion amoebas spinning in unison.
This is a way home.
Traveling through whatever stars shine upon the throne,
A matter of core heat and expertise,
A life-style but less consistent in the nature of our habits,
To graze among the grass of habitats and species intertwined,
Alas we have the attention span of a goldfish with milky eyes.
A cloned ability that falls under the statements of
'Do not touch' or 'Does not play well with others'
Labels and cross-eyed prospects forced out into the harsh sun,
A duel of necessity and uncertainty in the wake of our traveling storm,
worn along old roads gutted from the ruts of grinding heavy wheels,
spinning in place next to a field of corpses left to sit in the sun's blistering heat.
Dust in a cry and wailing at the failed memory of playtime.
or a kink in the armor of soldiers that left them in this state of main,
busting a vein that runs blue inside the temperament of the lost that have to stay,
Displeased that they have to remain,
ghosts hold court in wasted battlefields,
an air of pensive decision fluttering through vaporous forms,
while tentative tactics are taken and mutinous thoughts reformed,
maneuvers are moved upon and a sort of order is restored,
Look at all of them at once in a panic among scattered bones,
now peace has settled and ethereal eyes once again steel for war.
Step,
drop black,
fade,
move the scene,
destroy the camera so now we're forced to live with our own experience and memory,
No pictures to stimulate our receptors,
or trick our senses into the ethos of something not our own,
exclusive in it's individual recess,
it's response to dilating reasons,
Creasing upon the paper city's edge where a dusting of brick and mortar collect in our lap,
a moment to rewind and reflect into lit tenement windows and the human condition's condition
This place full to the brim with fear and miracles,
The land where wood grain stands up to speak and shouts,
but the shouts are drowned out by the creak of houses that sway alone and crumbling in disrepair,
A sad state for anything to exist,
a mess where untangling the potential of the destitute might be of frustrating design,
undecipherable it's ability to undermine the best of intentions,
and remind the attendant why they had never bothered before to step down hallways littered by broken glass.
It's a last place.
A location where horror comes to die on command,
maybe part of a pattern that demands it's victims to stand at attention ,
the fashion of political prisoners under an executioner's hand.
In the end the static of watching the winding helix's stagger and stutter under starlight is a matter to revisit and study,
but wondering at the ways occupies our minds and whittles away the days,
til time ticks,
battle is done,
the light has gone out,
and it's our turn to fade away....
8:08 PM
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