In a wisp
In a way
we come together

we stray

An ethereal run
is our bond,
fortune's fun
is our song

Yet in words
and in strokes
fill paragraphed
hopes

Ends of the days
harrowing ways
Keep drawing us in
together, not fitting in

We set forth
in service of love
aloft
in the mud

Never together
Never apart.

Those minuscule moments of clarity and purpose
Fill my days with longing
To die knowing I can’t live there

I think I've reached that point
Where giving up and going on
Are both the same dead end to me
Are both the same old song

I think I've reached that point
Where every wish has come true
And tired disguised oblivion
Is everything I do

Please stop loving me
Please stop loving me
I am none of these things

I am none of these things
None of these things

I think I've reached that point
Where all the things you have to say
And hopes for something more from me
Are just games to pass the time away

Please stop loving me
Please stop loving me
I am none of these things

I am none of these things
I am none of these things

I think I've reached that point
Where every word that you write
Of every blood dark sea
And every soul black night
And every dream you dream me in
And every perfect free from sin
And burning eyes
And hearts on fire
Are just the same old song

Please stop loving me
Please stop loving me
I am none of these things

Come
Show me your scars
Let me kiss them
with knowing
then add to them my own
For breathless screaming
Is the kindness in your heart
The release of your soul
The payment of your being

Where the whip **** alone
Into the whitened pillow
That is buried the center
Of your pleasure, and pain
Now markers of the honor
We pay to this reality
The golden broken core
of your hidden apple's
seeds now splayed.

The Front
A muddy black line
of demarcation
In the filled
treads of boots
Trudged through
the rain of your
tempers and
lost intentions
Now stuck between
making a peace
and fighting on
a losing battle
where holding
our arms
is the only
yet wrong
place to go
Nowhere to win
Nothing left to lose

Cocked
We point our bold fingers into shelves of our dangers and horridly
plow Through the triggers of now where we only can serve the the
greater number with nerve in old style blue steel in which nothing
can heal            only
take it                back
now I think they
are ready to
know that
the greater
the number
the quicker
the slumber

A green angry
bottle of ****
Nasty ogre of
endless remiss
In oozing
incountenance
Hammers in
breathy credence
Defy we they
Her that say so
And he that
cowers in every show
In so much greater
they number
The mess of my
horrid old lumber
Most definitely
Me
It's all that they
See

Despite from
this efforts
Being nice and
Laid comforts
An exhaustive
dumb repetoire
Of convulsive
nice quagmire
It is never enough
Just an affliction
of being
Damaging
Careening
A car on the ice
Another monsterous
device
In each day fro
And so it must end
There's no way to stop
never to mend.