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...