You know the feeling. It's a vacancy. Or something more like fait accompli. Let's just stare down into the abyss of the future. While veering off the road. This is what you work for. This was carefully thought out. Just the next generation's set of failures. Or tolerance through clinched teeth. Why not go for it? This is the best we can do.
We hang ourselves on a set of ideals. The rope is a chain and a line of communication. The chair is mighty wobbly. And the beams in the ceiling might not hold up. The black heat of the night stifles. And when the shock wears off. What's left are spots black and blind. Marks breaking lines of time. Marks breaking strides. This is the best we can do.
it's a quiet scene here. the only light comes through windows. into the empty room where i sit. not quite alone and not quite fulfilled. solitude is forced upon me. in one week increments. time that's no longer time. morphing into a vacuous space. where i'm carving out a new existence.
freedom and mobility. never in sync with circumstance. they come in crashing the party. and leave me feeling wanting. the decision to process is made from somewhere else. calmly washing over my body. like a narcotic numbing the pain. the solitude is a small consolation.
green leaves swaying branches. wistfully remembering the ghosts who've walked beneath. i've layed them aside. i'll dream of them tonight. at some point they all fall and disintegrate. back into the stream. the movement toward total resolution.
You know the feeling. It's a vacancy. Or something more like fait accompli. Let's just stare down into the abyss of the future. While veering off the road. This is what you work for. This was carefully thought out. Just the next generation's set of failures. Or tolerance through clinched teeth. Why not go for it? This is the best we can do.
