Here I sit, and I wait, waiting backwards,
clawing at the trail of seconds,
the course of which remains steady, despite my best efforts.

The last moment of starlight is a welcoming peace.
Under impending interruption,
they flicker so softly.

They will fade soon, and the clouds will be the first to awaken,
From void in the night sky
to the perspiration of a planet.

I may watch, or ignore.  I haven't decided.
But watching is a distraction all on its own,
for when I watch, I'm not experiencing and only photographs are retained

In the very brief moment when silence explodes
a wave of new light will emerge from yesterday.
And when the night has set,
the world can begin anew.

Oh, but for the words I cannot tell you, I would have your heart.

Maligned against the shadow of my conscience, truths too frail to echo freely
reflect, carrying bursts of fantasies that tug against the structure of my soul.

If I could, for a fraction of an instant, take you into those ideas;
if you could sense just a drop of the emotion that paints my dreams
and etches the critical beauty of your face into my eyes, involuntarily...

If I could only overwhelm you the way you do me...

But I have nothing but words to offer, and words decay faster than flowers

I could return to you your dignity,
if you would return me my attention.

If only anything else were worth focusing on...

Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.  

Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-

I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of  exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.

The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?

And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard.  Tell me more."

Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.

Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself

And the last and the worst of the problems grew slowly
like primitive oceans that the valleys accrue,
and the keyboard and bristles spun webs in the corners
while the masterful details to darkness withdrew.

The seconds would echo if a pause were addressed
and dissolve all the clarity that I thought that I knew;

encumbered, unwilled,
like the treasures of sadness
in the soul that sheds softly while collecting dew.

And then there was quiet,
while the creatures were barking,
and disdain and the darkness receded in hue.

For a moment, awoken, while the thoughts were subdued
But exactly when spoken, uncertainty renewed

There are just words
that resonate, meaningfully,
-as if they have meaning-
from the echo within my skull
to the entrance within my soul.

And to you who infers,
who proclaims the righteous totality
and splendor of connotation
under the guise of one's own God,
within and without,
I thank you for your consideration,
for finding your words in mine.

For when 'you' and 'I' are swapped,
when truth is but a sound
and notions dissolve into the echoes of life,
this will be but a piece of paper,
marked up crudely
from clandestine forethought
into a portrait of emotions, unvisible.

Should I share my tears onto this page
it could have no more significance
than the weakest tear in the fabric
as it, too, devolves into brusque indifference.

When the thoughts have decayed
and I find myself a stranger to this text,
I will know its meaning extinct
but for its interpretations

Imagine then, imagining
-the pigeon in the prism prison-
driven by unfathomed space
to creation's end by feckless wings

The scope of scape, identified,
holds measure of your lucid mind
Beyond world's end, the conquests swell
to amplify the conscious realm

The limits shatter outwardly...
Now exercise the feckless wings
exploring vastness to be understood,
realizing the next level of prism prison

To a manner unpracticed I thoughtfully drift,
preparing the actions in which such hope might exist.
And though hopelessly broken, I cannot refrain
an intent that has woken: a refrain of disdain.

These shames be postponed while the outcomes could be,
lest the speaker alone should condone prophecy.
Other factors removed, in truth I'd concede;
for the evidence proves that I cannot succeed!

But in spite of the actor, hope must persist
though external factors and the chances of risk.
-Elicit reaction by means that are blind-
so that a manner unpracticed becomes a manner defined