not of the distance behind us,
not of this day anymore,
the streets rumble and squeal,
echoing in the cemetery silhouettes,
our feet crunching through the mulch
as our hands inch closer and closer
and our urges grow more devious
farther from the city we get,
to some beyond they don't know exists,
as night falls, we're not of this time anymore,
seeking the remains of Luna French,
to whom Death came like a grinning buffoon,
her body spread everywhere, they said,
a tale we would never know to be true or not,
as the night latched our limbs together
and into each other we went,
not of this world anymore.

You shouldn't know me and I shouldn't let you,
my burden's cigarette reminds me all the time,
my burden wasting time to dress myself,
my burden stuffing my face,
my burden to simply show myself,
my burden to know,
my burden to know perhaps too much,
my burden to love,
my burden to hate,
my burden to wake,
only to ask myself again and again,
why do I even bother?

Look man
I know life
It seems pretty bleak.
We all like
To jest
And make each-other
Look weak.

You've joined in too,
Please don’t deny,
You’re saying I’m blue
And of the bickering kind.

Well I think that’s just rude,
Although a bit true,
That you've just assumed
That I miss loving blooms
In warm summers
Breezing lovely songbird tunes.

Just let me say:
I love the Thrushes,
Finches, and Jays.
King Fishers
Fishing all day.

You see?
I hear songbird tunes.
Now won’t you tell me
That you've heard some too?

Have I told you of the seasons?
Fall endings, winters blue,
And spring’s tree sons?
Please and thank you.
I love that you've given me a reason.

It’s not like people love to share words,
Through and through,
Like season's turn
From orange
To red
To blues
And green's hue.

I’m not trying to bicker,
Or be slicker,
I just like to snicker
And be jocund or lesser.

So thank you for the inspiration
From your modest interpretation
Of the infinitely doubtful implications you see
When others debate on philosophy,
The abstract, the riddles, trite jests, even
The summer breeze and society.

I'm slowly dying,
In a mangled heap,
Some bloodshot dilution,
Of my former self,
Dependant on words,
Brittle and uncertain,
That hold all,
I cannot ask of you,
So I resign to this;
I'm slowly dying,
I hope it matters