warming water for my coffee,
I'm unraveling in the loftiest
of towers.
I'm the author of what's stopping me.
I'm hours turning to a century.
honor me by way of lead pipe
and spray paint;
dead is dying, it's an age thing.
it was meant to be.

I think.

stalking in the shadow
of the castle wall,
I act involved,
I'm actually a
couple moons away.
whose to say when the walls will break.

hastily escapist,
I'm waylaid by the weight
of the shape of it all.

absolve me, please.

I'll be waiting in the shade
of that willow outside that
window that I'll never again
watch a sunset through.

I'm used to it.