oh to long
but long I do

on the cusp
of greatness and not
in superposition existence caught

immobile as dawn breaks
for a day not yours but the world's
as it ends
each eye aches

never out always in
don't use those words
they betray sickness

oh but I am

tales of yore
echoed then
echo now

of your blinding perfection
bone against bone
not one past another

you are what he seeks
but not I
not anymore

weep tears of paint
balanced in your imbalance

in this moment of weakness
I come back to you

have you any clue?

wartorn and moving
I come back to you

trembling roars make timber
shiver by the bank

and Beanpole stands contemplating
he'd be doing the right thing for the wrong reasons

dead vines or maybe dying
no tears no flaccid crying

a ray of sunshine makes them crawl
at first they whimper as if being mauled

color, all bright and sweet
dripped into the linen sheet

coating each thread up and down
ease the fire, **** the frown
but not really

reality slips away
as color shades the grey
in its own image

all while it creases happily.

the sheet then came to realize
it had stuffed its mouth to muffled cries
a mouth it didn't have

what shall the sheet do now?

color, oh so bright and sweet
how can the sheet come to terms?
it must strike a deal with color or find a way otherwise.

I can hear it crying again
why is it always water and bottles spent?

wish it stays away this time for good
not unlike the light in me

at least right now
at least in this moment