i find myself exhaust'd
without words to fill
the gaps between breathes
standing in a garage
scavenging ashtray for
more cigarette than butt.
feelings of a cut and run
history. always cyclical, always
flooding. again, repeating.
i may not be able to
tell the future, but
i will laugh should we make it
together. my memories
have been lost before, never
quite wiped clean.
i once could live.
these days writ of longings,
of fated desperations, writ
of corner'd separations
while eyes haze and lids droop.
while connections are made
between the breaks in
statements you had to say.
lemme be straight, i am done.
taken to apathy. absconding
with nil thought of leaving
negative remembrances behind.
leaving yellow-paged notebooks
of a past life.
days of the deifiers, days of their
fat-trimming inquisition. For
the flesh lusteth against Spirit,
and the Spirit against the flesh.
and those were scrawnier days.
The best of my years
Could never be described as
The hallmarks of music.
An aspirant paean
To adequacy and
The clutch of
Moral responsibility –
Not of the classical boon.
‘twas a bellowing woodwind sound-
A cold grasping feel through the dark of
Many, and many a blind herd – yes!
To the invisible standard of days!
I am Atlas sounding in the deeps.
A cry against the way things are headed -
corrupted veins are drawing bad blood into my heart of hearts.
We did great things, but perhaps the lights were too bright.
And now, in the wake of the dying flames, we find cause to slink back into shadows.
Looking back into the past,
a child dwarfed, scaled down minutely by his chosen path,
yet this is unknown.
A look, 9 years past, at the beginning and it is still only a small step forward.
Perhaps the old man to come will remember these
years and laugh at the pain, self-wrought, by the fledgling artist.
Hunched and hurried to find the end at the start,
now calmed and toned.
What will my instrument look like a decade from now?