I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

You may want to be the same
In thought and function,
Form and name,
But let me be diverse.

You may choose a path and hold it true,
And that may be what’s best for you,
But let me choose my course.

And when you feel the urge to fight,
Or prove your point
To prove you’re right
Pause to gaze upon the starry night,
And feel your true place in the universe.

A deafening bang. A blinding flash.
A tortured scream, then malicious laugh.

We are magic.
Are we are monsters?

Come here; compassion barely holds.
And without passion care is cold.
All love leads to sacrifice.
We have the virtue to chose our vice.

Are we magic?
Are we monsters?

There is conviction in the heart of man.
There is beauty in his eye.
But the sums of soft concerns sound loudly
To drown out harder crimes.

We are magic; we are monsters.

We tell our “truths”.
They paint our world.
We’re practiced.
We’re patient.
We’re porous.

We are magic. We are monsters.

Fumble, falter, fail to fight.
The dusk is here, relieved by night.

Doubting, dreading, doubling down.
A shadow takes the hardened ground.

Careful, costly, a cloud at night.
Just can’t seem to get my head right.

Open, owning, and owing to
A pillar of strength forged by two.

Critters crawling, comfort found.
Perhaps this thing just turned around.

Honest, honoured, hailed the fight.
Cannot seem to get my head right.

Ejected, dejected, deflated flat.
Whoever heard of a hero like that?

Awkward, agile, always aware.
Too many thoughts, but not one to spare.

Pointed, pictured, pursued the light.
But I can’t seem to get my head right.

The longest, driest drought could not truly parch my lands.
So nourished are they by your warm, rich waters.

The coldest, harshest winter could not **** the life in my burrows.
So heated are they by your soft, cozy down.

The deepest, darkest night could not deny my eyes sight.
So filled are they by your radiant light.

So though the surface is cracked, and bodies barely stir,
Though my hands must reach out to find their way.

Though hope is far in the distance, and perhaps only a mirage.
Though words may come slowly, and meaning is a scavenger hunt,

There is life below.
There is life within.
There is life, mine bound to yours.
We begin. We end. We begin.

Into the wild woods I’ll wander
To find the whimsy I seek.
I’ll jump right out at you!
Unless around you, I sneak.

Through the brambles and tangles
I’ll make my advances,
And try to decipher
Some flat, subtle glances.

When the smell of the season
Seeks to haunt my poor head,
And I know of no reason
To part from my bed.

When the images are stitched,
But somehow grow as a seed,
I’ll embrace the journey,
And get lost in the ****.

The reflections we saw,
Were they yours, ours, or mine?
Were I to unlock your eyes
Would they open up mine?

If I stayed awake forever
Could I feast on the moon?
Were I to aide your endeavour
Would you think it a boon?

When the truth lies beneath sludge
Under a murky, dark pond,
I’ll temper my grudge.
And try to move right along.

When life lights up too little
There’s a treatment I need,
With the ice and the water,
I’ll get lost in the ****.

Fingers into fontanelles.
Wordsmith weaves a weary spell.
A thought provoked to pluck and explore.
But have you ever thought before?

Ideas reflected time & again,
To philosophize or merely pretend.
Walking over & over through that same door.
And have you ever thought before?