Is this love or admiration?
I just want to have you without contemplation.

.

Where will the circus fall,
leaving giraffes homeless,
as pitched tents get pitched
and sideshow freaks
become the norm,
guessing someone’s weight
who doesn’t care

When the sun sets
tablecloth desires
on a silverware runway
with dishes made of gold
and wine glasses half full
are spilled in sad regrets

Will I walk alone
on a cobblestone road,
counting windows without shades
laced with flat screen televisions
tuned to the wrong channel,
reruns in Technicolor

Broadcasting seeded visions
in open fields of tall grass
when Eric Burdon sang
and cherry trees once stood
producing the fruit
of a past I no longer
want to see

Where will the circus fall,
where will I fall

tachyphylaxis - tach·y·phy·lax·is (tāk'ə-fĭ-lāk'sĭs)  n.
1.    A rapidly decreasing response to pleasure following initial administration.

I didn’t know this
demon had a name.
Ugly as it is it fits,
a random mish-mash
of unpleasant sounds
and equal unpleasantness
felt.

I’ve known the *******
forever, manifest in vitamin cures
and psychological processes,
SSRI’s and stabilizers.

He attends to the end of
affectionate loving and all
the designer vacations
you've ever taken.

He is the golden handcuffs of
square foot home ownership
and his business cards are
set in silver.

To put it bluntly
his continuous presence
is intent on destruction
of any contentment.

He is all things along the way
that appear so promising at first
but never last.

Synonymous with tolerance,
antonymous with precedence,


the antagonistic leaven of all living.

I don't know how it came to be
To have so many holes in me
But here I cry
By and by
Bleeding from the heart
Where so many rivers start.

I cannot explain
This inexorable pain
As I cross this river Styx
Wondering how I'd come to this
But here I am
****** and Dammed
Crying cold tears
Wondering what fate nears.

I remain here with the ferryman
Wondering how I was ever a merry man.
Crying my tears of blood
Just as any man would.
Touched so high in grace
****** for all my race.
So burning is this torment
Yet cold, silent, and dormant.

But I am no betrayer.         No, Not yet
No sin increases my fare

Charon does not bring me to that gate
But rather back home to finish my fate.
For I am not dead
And it is not living that I dread.
I have only been shown this torture
So I may avoid it in future.
I have no place in that weeping forest
Just as Dante, I was but a tourist.
But so my sorrow deep and cold
Should not permeate into my old
But rather it shall remain
a past pain.

O I shall remember
these such foul members
But it is that which makes me
Not breaks me.
These are that which become me
For I shall not succumb to these.
And so these folds shall make me
stronger
Till I feels these holes,
These rivers in my heart,
These tears of blood,
This passing of the laurel,
These faults within my ore,
No longer.

I've seen you from across time
A penny a year a decade a dime
I've waited for the right time
Waiting for our worlds to rhyme


But I was too slow
I lost track of your time
My memory ran low
Your faded from my mind


So I look out through this broken glass
Trying to catch a glimpse of the past
Because now no matter what I do
That's the only way I can see you