Calloused fingers trace their intentions upon the smoothest silk of
skin, like waves reflecting the moon's light back to a sunless state of
day. We've braved the trenches of social interactions, the jungles of
communications, and have reached the plateau, contently entwined in
one another.
But the bell curve proved too willing to be true.
In a moment, I am that same boy falling from the sidewalk, draped in
misconception, losing vision to a passing stranger and sheer
coincidence. But this is no trauma of the head! I fear it is much more
vital, much more fleeting.
Much more needed, much more weary
Much more lethal, much more guarded
My mouth runs on empty when my heart stops supplying and I expect
only the worst. But the feeling's so appealing to just let go and lift up,
exhaust your ambiguities and leave fate to sift through it all.
Because I'm better than that.
Because You're better than that.
Because, at the end of it all, we're all better than that.
The wind will blow and the earth will spin.
Wars will be fought and men I'll never meet will demand obedience.
There will be new names, and legends continued.
Things will change, and things will never change.
This is not important.
I wrote this poem because I wanted you to know I think some things are.
I wrote this poem because I move too fast for my own good.
I wrote this poem because I am hopelessly hopeful.
I wrote this poem because you destroyed a black hole, and you don't even know it.
However,
Thisisnotimportant.