“Find a pile of gold and sit on it”

When do things become pointless?

A limit taken to infinity?

Only tangential relevance?

Does the irrelevance add to something?

I know I’m guilty

Searching for the next big

Distraction

The vibes are good

Mood is right

A pent up sigh

A cartoon breath

Right out of my chest

A couch cushion evening

While old Conor Oberst

Fills my ears, the hole in my chest

Feet dangling, arm rest

I’d pray myself speechless

If I thought it would help

This endless place, vast

Where no one thing lasts

Like the sand on the beach

As the ocean retreats

By dice or design

I’m caught in the deluge, in my best shoes

Parking lot farewell’s

Summon an angry kind of nostalgia

For a time when I felt

More found

Than lost

As naïve as freshly laundered

Blankets

Not sullen and *****

Freshly laundered bills

What am I?

Some primate?

An affinity for patterns?

Some superior alpha helix?

It rained when I got home

A baptism of sorts

To wash away the dust

The debris

Of all the bad things

That got to me

An action potential I lack

A chord progression

Make it come back

Busted strings

Hardshell case

Talent that went to waste