We become bashful, considering the future
With presumptuous talk and high aims.
But, what suits us is comfort in knowing
We are in the same place.
So, we listen, eagerly
As designs unfold,
And build our own out of it,
Swirling in the grand plans
of where we can go.
But all in all,
The destination is weightless,
So long as the end provides you and I as one.
Everything becomes strained by anxiety
Which forms cooly and without notice.
Matters grow worse without warning,
As the best of man slips away unseen,
And give way to the grotesque.
Steps are taken to rid such follies,
But nothing comes,
Only concealment of what we wish to hide,
Painting our worst great, grand colors
So that at sight
Everything looks as it should.
The sound that burns comes effortlessly,
Though all of the other nonsense
That muddles and gets in the way.
It’s easy to ache for what is missing,
When the taste lingers and sounds remind
Of that moment.
Oh, but how easy it is to dismiss what lays ahead
When sounds arching shapes
Hold no bearing because
They have yet to be heard.
To be surprised
Excites more than nostalgia
May ever offer,
And it is merely waiting for new sounds
To awaken and excite.
It wasn’t always my fault.
But, it doesn’t matter.
Sight is separated
And we fight to explain
Everything that transpired
Through our own eyes.
Blind to that which we failed to see
Two blind creatures
Hoping for the best,
To lead us to that self-gratifying
Truth, our truth.
Nothing is ever more right
Then when it’s said yourself.
Creating in thick strokes,
Which are never cautious enough
To allow the paint to spread thinly –
Only moving impetuously
To attain what is wanted when its wanted.
It’s never bright enough,
Or there is never enough water.
Still, we just paint and paint –
Creating our worlds
With lazy hands,
Providing desires on a whim,
And shading the danger so it never is seen.
Forget what you heard about language.
Communication binds us, but words fail.
We bob between the constant struggle to articulate
What it is that floats in and out of our head,
While trying not to give away too much.
It never works.
Words come in,
looking for an exit,
To find all of the doors have snapped shut.
I am here,
Under the tawny sheen of street lamps –
Smoke rising gracefully,
Cutting through the swirling
Pieces of this morning’s headlines –
I will wait under this fading light,
past midnight, past 2 a.m.
And past it all.
As night flees and softly turns to day –
The rosy glow of pink gradually
Giving way to a soft yellow –
I will wait for the world and her;
I will wait, where I am.