There’s a certain way about humans
and how we always search for answers,

A cyclical pattern marks our every move
as we live and we die
with tranquility as a lofty goal,

But we can't help dissecting the tiny pieces,
the gears that grind against the grain;
We wonder why dad has to check and double check the lock,
why mom counts the seconds until the day is over,
why family conversations always happen in the car—

And that’s when complexity engulfs simplicity:

We quickly shed layers of blame,
like the scarf and the hat we toss to the wayside
as soon as the worst of the storm has passed,

Because we know better than most
that when it rains,
it pours,

And all we crave is stillness in the air.

**** me platonically.
Measure the distance between your fingers and the synapse in my brain.
Check the amplitude across my breastplate and The absence of love marks semblance covering it.
Detach your hips from mine and run away from Me faster.
Look along the purlieu of my heart and shake me Harder with subliminal messages between Glances.
Touch my versification to your mouth and do not Stop your flickering eyes from studying the genial Eulogies between every line.
Sir, you cannot touch antique pieces of marrow And bone.
This blood is obsolete.
How anachronistic to have a heart pumping Inside of a dead soul.
Please tell me a story, the side I could never see.