there is a painting above my head, below the ceiling. it is very dear to me.

what if all we were meant to be has gone to waste

would have that been a betrayal or sorts

the path of resignation swarming my brain

oh woes the garden has gone to waste

anger has bled the forest dry and the rye

the grain, seed and food of the very despair

feeding my death of peace of mind, deeply dissatisfied

not good enough and I am to blame

the nails do not cut it, anymore

they do not pierce the 

itch sustained, the avalanche at odds with my throat

stuck.

waves of heat play fiddle with my body

car headlights flashing, it is not a valentine ballet

methodical gestures. shades betray my vision

test my resolutions and mortal attachments

in equal realizations of calling for

satisfaction.

too many secrets

I forgot to keep track of which end is that way

or the getaway

locked in this place doomed to be

the humble ground embracing us

feeding the cycle anew

from atop the peaks the weight crumbles

closer to the Good, The Light and the Love

fuller from companionship of ghosts

of this I have little doubt

in this painting, above my head

below the ceiling in this box

a sailor sets out to sea

as the sunset bridges the currents and calls it quits

perhaps one day his anchor will find a use still

I pray it will be better that way.