a mouthful of novels
casting evasive statements
another changing feeling
an eluding ghost,
one's written pages
colliding with sentences
clashing against
of other's capsizing
paragraphs and phases
binding in and out
from another shelf,
another frayed spine
fading yellow pages
or crips, clean textures
thinking that we write
our novels alone,
my dear, how impossible
to finish such sublime material
--our own novels--
with nothing but
our syllables
what will fuel
your words,
what will lend
the structure to cover,
the world is teetering
of rippling acceleration
and moments of
seething hesitation
we all end as
books on a shelf
just make sure
your's is willing
to tell

spiraling down the other road
finding the clashing of waves
the beating of salty concave
yearning for that morning save
whisk me away
to a better place
an adventure beholds
upon the ocean's expansion
or tilt me closer to the sun
the beaming glory,
the melting gold fountain
the extraordinary salvation
to leave my troubles
forge new memories
create breathtaking
sceneries expanding
that of my mind and body
yearning for that
other road, outside my front door
I'm ready to step outside
to breathe that blinding life
I'll hold as many hands
I'll do whatever I can

the ceaseless snow fall
abundant delicacies
upon a butterfly's wings
moment's rippling events
cascading grey quarries
across ticking dimensions,
shuddering shoulders
upsetting laughter,
clasp that tiny blade
inside your makeshift
home thereafter,
beating winds
clashing swords
a draining bath
where you soaked
all those memories
like whiplash,
that turmoil substance
gushing out
a teetering notion
all this wordy banter
the music spawned the start
the one inaudible
on this rotating globe
just know better things
are soon to be