I can't read my own hand palm ~ does it matter either way > lightness of breath is a marathon runner young at heart still.

had a nice due not quite a candlelight dinner

by the season of Fall we got even

the World overall did not change

there or here the metrics local, small

miniscule to those around and ahead

I drink a singular glass of milk, a pint really

at dawn to buzz off the ache on my jaw

thats a lie of course, I grow bored

and yet instilled so deeply is the habit

the destain a mess I can frame inside my brain

as my index finger pursues the rim of the typical glass I

contemplate the shine of what I am told is white cow milk

watered down to taste before serving and finding it pleasing

either way finding pulse in the pulpe taking swig after swing

short of a slam nor sham, all good it does taste like milk

I do do wonder

what is weight and why am I drawn to the causality of futility

just as rings permeate the inner glass, they remain NOT a window

to my soul or otherwise a confirmation of my bad decisions (I am only human and therefore I am afraid)

awash and sat straight and upside down the glass

is not faded to be a tool of my nourishment nor evidence of my sins (let it be, may it be so)

nor is preference for a bitter drag on my throat a price to pay (just as I suck my front teeth to prevent desolation from escaping//running away before I too have grown old)

to retire at the right time, having found something to care about

so so picky

my hand palms do remain familiar, for now

may that feeling linger long and ring true

for I have need(s)

aches and burdens preciously mine

however careless. a patchwork hideous to pursue at the fingertips

coarse for we fucked it up

wet for past the drowning at the holy river

it was left to dry atop stone by the elements and blessed with rain

I knock in my skull: there is no answer,

that leaves me deeply unsatisfied

uoah the pursuit of peace of mind suggests

a life sentence.

I had more fun in the swings as a child

my best memories really

being given milk by my mother

that memory leaves me deeply satisfied.

if forgiveness is a choice

my condolences to the mirror's edge for it shall taste

like barber wire slashing belief and deceit blazing

the wishes of that same candlelight dinner as the dawn returns

apparations are not real that must be clear as believers tremble in fear

a trick of the light matching eyes with the past, deluge the flood of a broken spell meant to fade

a persona I forgot to replace.

a nickel can get you a ride in the carossel

no matter what we do the timer shifts us though we stand in place

we are taken aboard and discarded just the same as we departed though within we know this

to taste untrue and that weight us down, suffering in mourning silence

in Uni I adopted a Dove or rather a Dove saved my life twicefolded

today a Crow with the same shine engages with the same grace

humans see what they want to see assimilating memory with the futility of expressive eyes

should I imagine animals can speak or reply?

hanging totems and scribing runes in the skin

as you were my dear:

must it be? it must be: it must be...

shift is a key

tripping over oneself head trapped in a darker place

misty and torment these darker clouds that both echo

and find space to spin and replace the light between the familiarity

of where I have been and thought I knew, understood and cherished

a breathtaking unseattling floor shaking instance of realization

that what I once loved, not the feeling replaced but that passion has moved on

to the ark of memory and recollection.

to the confinements of fragment no longer certain and freely given

as if flanked it does not last nearly as precisely as one wishes

nor is it owned exclusively, that much I understood

suppose I forgot every wish and promise

what's left to abdicate and mark testimony

flesh that knows no sin is but a shell

beneath the good action a reaction, new found purpose

or a flood of belonging//lounging for a recipient of match

lovers extend and interlock hands

parents create new limbs and teach them to walk, think and communicate

everyone else waves accordingly

let us keep the freak show to a content minimum

branch and achieve growth before the confinement of walls smoother

what's left of my continuum awake (and) otherwise.

(if physical health exists, so does the emotional fulfillement

and music transcends all three including the spiritual necessity

to tap into the tingle of a door ill designed and jammed tight)

unclear

lost all my composure

a fever of chemical combustion

bodily revolution exasperated at the arrival

of dawn, a sign that the spell has been not lifted

records of dental affairs and blood trails

to conjure wonderlust and love oneself

is a wonderful feeling indeed.

a fish once caught withdrawn, taken

out of the element where it belongs

shortcomings in a plate, grilled and broken

from spine that still combat the predator

stuck in my throat making us equally

out of breath and deadly bored

with what has escaped from this day

synthesis of flavour

whatever makes it worthwhile

to satisfy the fantasy of eternal pleasure

such fun.

cannot shake out the infectious status of paralysis

a flood of choice, given enough time

desire to be an insect crushed by the roadside

be by pyre or transfused by reason

condition: terminal; origin, human.

at a glance there are no roots in this tree

not within reach

to carve a path by means of mere fingers

hands like claws, broken nails, tore skin

achieving quite little in fact

hope is what is caved first.

i heard they killed the sun

dearest star sabotaged two years off retirement

a tragedy and a freakshow, a cane crushing an open jar

an open window is not an invitation to fly friend

i wont stop you if you try though

to let go is a lesson and a testament to the ability

to care, to share, to kill the Sun.