Even the loudest dreams
drift off into oblivion
upon my waking.

Held true an honest sword, never.

Yet still a firm grip persists
from a grudge long clenched.


Gleaming and bitterly cold,
this sharpened-heartstring blade.
Forged from flesh betrayed,
handed down through ages of old.

Concrete barriers with trees painted on them?
Buildings with murals of rural landscapes?

I want to paint a grassy field like a parking lot.
I want to carve a cityscape into a cliff face.
I want to dye the sky yellow, jaundice with smog.

Bring the city to country a bit.

Hands fly.
They buzz in pretty little circles,
round and round.
The circumferential numerals
countlessly winding down days.
Hands spinning away years.

Seems their speed is dependent,
relative to routine.

Slip into a well-grooved track of mundanity
and watch the wheel run.

Dash in a bit of change, though,
and feel it slow a bit.
Take a step out of that path worn into the floor.
Face a new direction, argue with your compass.

Slow it all down.

Slow life down
to a sober crawl,
stand face to face with
that clock on the wall.