And life was like a highway
The Soul-- a car.
The moments speeding by
Blurring together.

But how many times have you stopped
Just to gaze--
Just to slow down,
For once.

For once? --why did matter
How fast you were going,
Or how slow the horizon was growing.
For once: why drive at all?

It seemed that: drive.
All it seemed. All it is, really.
Could you leave?
Or are you stuck on this continuum?

Maybe it was the way the sun's gaze
(that day specifically)
Held the world in such
Un-timely grace.

Like nostalgia held under the lime light.
But it was gone as fast as it came,
What's left is-- well-- memory.
Couldn't you have stopped?

And now it's stuck behind your mind.
Like the black blotch
Of a crack
In your back window.

But regret is no more than rear-view mirrors
And and empty tank.
Wouldn't the sunset be so much better
If you weren't headed towards it?

I mean--

How many times did you escape,
Just to walk-- heck,
To even measure how long
The pavement lines were?

Sometimes the best thoughts we have
Are just backtracking to find gas.
But that's regress...
Isn't it?

But maybe a new body on an old frame
Doesn't cut it.
You're worth less if you have miles.
Yet without miles, you lack the rustic wisdom.

--whatif

What if death's the only destination.
Then why even bother
With where you're going?
If the sunset fades--

Look,

You could have all the moments
Pass your window
Or
You could simply gaze.

When I met you,
I never knew how hard it was to not laugh
The way we cracked up
The way your face wrinkled up when you laughed,
Like creasess on a paper
Frantically straightened
Only to find the light fold still there.

We laughed like old trees,
So close for so long
Roots like Memories
Leaves like words we knew we'd say
But you were hiding something,
Something worse than just
The insects under your bark.

Deeper than the sap in your limbs
Deeper than the growth-rings that measure character
You had The 94
Now, all but our worry remains
You see, it's not a blight,
This 94, not a disease,
It's the whispers in your roots,
The deathly cadence of the wind
The indescribable,
Overpowering,
Trickle of twisted sunsets
And deformed seasons,
Winter sprouting buds--
Boils upon your branches,
Sickening grey around your trunk

But not one visible sign
Only the molting of your smile,
So folded and creased,
Only the fade in your eyes
While Spring at its peak
An unseen sulk in your boughs
Brittling your laugh
To crackling sighs
All this, why 94?
Now the story ends where it began
So full a number 94, but only the
Measure of how overcome
A surplus of spite
A great harvest of sorrow,
Your greatest and happiest
But never, 94

While Spring states, "Alive!"
Only 6% so,
While Autumn brings cloaking frost,
94, brings the snow
Your Headress of Sorrow
Your blood-gleaming boil,
Your invisible meanace.

"The tree was never good enough,"
A passing being once said
'It's leaves don't fall right'
'Why was it planted here?'
'Why is there no fruit'
'Why'
'How'
'What'
And so, your 94:
Never Good Enough

But I ask: redemption?
Regrowth?
Another Harvest?
Another Season?
Another,
andanotherandanotherandanotherandanotherandanoth­er

Now we're back,
No leaves on your brow,
Roots not flowing for now,
But,
     barely awake for the sun.
Its smile is warm,
Rays of life.
Golden, gleaming--
Breathe!
You're still here
Breathe!
It's only you
Breathe!
But how-- Alive?
Breathe?
Where's 94?

Only husks remain
No more shadows
No oily Rain,
No more grey
Or bloodened boughs

Just you,
  and Me,
  and the sun.

I see
I observe
Information floods my banks
And I continue on.

But, you see,
I saw you,
Sitting there:
Gazing out the bus window.

Instead of storing.
Moving on.
I stop.
Watch on.

"Beauty"
Not in my syntax,
Nor in my archive.
So I watch on.

Brown hair
Deep eyes
Many of these archived
So I keep on--

Why
This order
Of things?
I think on.

Her pensive look.
Sad
I suppose.
Ponder on.

Her hand,
Chin resting on.
A sigh lifts her form
Breathe on.

Bus heaves.
A stop?
She glances:
Leave on.

I catch a whisp of her leave,
Her hair weaves through the crowd.
No, she can't leave.
Follow on.

But the crowd was too deep,
Like an ink drop,
Back to it's phial
Indistinguishable.

Opportunity, gone.
I see,
I observe
Information floods my banks.

And I, sadly,
continue on.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of the experience
Or the beauty of memory
The small time I knew her,
Or the time after.

Can I truly love, that which I have never loved?
Be, that which I cannot, truly, be?
Is it lack of forgiveness, or lack of remorse?
A lack of compassion, lack of empathy?
Do I truly not care?
Any glance I give to a memory of her
Only resides in the cynical.
The emotional phisique, deplorable to me.
The compassion, pathetic.
The frailty, a weakness.
The love, indifferent.
How so?
Why so?
So?

Part of taking upon the name of Christ,
Is loving without a price.
Caring without recompense.
Forgiveness without the thirst for vengence.
So many were touched by her loving hand.
Many were changed forever.

But, I was one of the few that weren't;
I fell to the brunt of her brutality.
Her lagging trust.
Unforgiving eye.
Because I, myself, was capable without help.
I didn't fit her standard of being less.
I didn't need built up, I wasn't repressed.
I was myself, and needed not another,
I didn't help, was I ever a brother?
I don't necessarily show that don't I care
With words, compliments taste weird in my mouth.
Yet, all the same, I do much for my friends.
I'm there, an ulterior influence.

But that is no matter, I never said kind.
Never did display a physique: benign.
I'm troubled she never trusted my word.
I spoke truth, when she 'ccused me of wrong.
Never, once, had I stepped out of line.
I was myself, I held to the line.
But, still, she never thought well of me.
Every hug that I gave, felt hollow— empty.
Have I done any wrong? Am I the problem?
Maybe I've over-thought all of this!
Yet, why can I not find a time where she wasn't?
Where I wasn't treated cynically?
No memory, no emotion, no influence?

"This page was made in rememberence of Ms._
To celebrate her many years of teaching."
Memories, pictures, stories, events.

Not one of them mine, no joyful remembrance.

tear upon the climbing highs,
rip-- bring up the 'cending lows.

this is living in your fears.

drinking through the breaking points,
a mind full of troubled pints,
there's a story within this glass,
a tale within her eyes.

hear the tale of broken glass,
beautiful in the moonlight,
like crackling indifference 'gainst
hope's warm embers of light.

claim the territory of her pain,
a force like soul-fallen rain
all in vain-- all in vain.

as she is...
she once was...

so shall she be.

so there is hope!
as once she was--

no! you cannot see?
the tale within her eyes?
the story within the glass?

so shall the rain fall,
pins and needles
pins and needles.

so shall the numbness grow.
novicane and empty bottles,
moonlight. tears.

all in vain: novicane.
all in vain: careful rain.

was she? the glass of my life?
shall she be? a tale of shattered moonshine?
am I the story, beautiful in fractured embers:
crackling indifference to hope?

so shall she be, it seems.
so shall I be in dreams:
again, under tearing seams.
broken. moonlit glassing gleams.

pain.
rain.

pins and needles.