At least there is consistency in emotional recidivism.
Criminality you can depend on.
Vacant words.
Hollow ***.
Empty eyes.
At the very least there is stability in the pattern.
You can sense the hand of dismissal as it cuts through the tension to lay its mark upon your cheek.
Delivering the degradation of being hit with the indifferent truth.
Nothing more than a pillowed and silken chaise that cleans cooks and allows you to lay your every waking trouble upon her breast, upholstered in thin sinewy tatters, longing for mutual fortification.

As the relentless shifting of time begins it's quickening,
my spirit grows increasingly nostalgic and ceaselessly restless.
The familiar and familial bonds forged long ago begin to grow taut
and full of palpable tension between all that has been,
and all that will be.
My mind is pierced by a dagger of remembrance.
The shadow box memories begin to liquefy and flow
sweeping along in it's wake both the sweetest and most bitter
until I am saturated by the past.
Facing what will be once more, I cling as ever to all that has been.
Moments and memories once fluid begin to converge and solidify.
forming the critical cornerstones upon which all that will be finds
it's firmest footing.
Strength, renewed it becomes easier to cast off the tension and turn a bright, sharp eye towards all that will be with the security of knowing that it would never come to pass without all that has been.

You are the dream of my sleepless nights.
Insanity beckons me forth into its arms.
Silent and motionless
Eyes wide and painful
Staring longingly into the abyss.
Searching endlessly for rest…just a moments rest.
I found no comfort in my bed last night.
No peaceful rejuvenation in slumber.
Only maddening laughter echoing in my mind.
…Just a moments rest.
Focus on the pain.
Let the laughter overtake you.
Release your grip on reality
Slip silently into the tortured realms of the insomniac.
Sweetest of dreams to you, my friend.
Pray you never wake up

The words hang thickly above my hand ?oscillating feverishly with limitless possibility. ?As the words begin to whip around in a cyclone ?of pure creation?. My hand begins to tremble as it staggers to ?keep pace with their dizzying entrance into this reality. ?The powerful words.?The phrases of iron ?and sentences of stone ?free fall into my hand to be ?released in the heavy darkness of each droplet of ink. ?The frivolous words.?The phrases of fancy ?and the plastic paragraphs ?fall away from the pen to rejoin the primordial well of imagination to await the right pen and hand to call them forth to their true purpose.