⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡠⠀⡄⢠⠀⢄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⣶⠟⢠⣾⡇⢸⣷⡄⠻⣶⣤⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀­⠀⠀⠀⠚⠛⠛⠃⠐⠛⠛⠃⠘⠛⠛⠂⠘⠛⠛⠓⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⢻⠏⢠⣿⣷⡄⠹⣿⠋⣠⣶⣿⣿⣶⣄⠙⣿⠏⢠⣾⣿⡄⠹⡟⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛­⣛⠋⠀⠋⠀⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠀⠙⠀⠙⣛⠛⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
╔═══════════════════════╗
⣰⡟⠀⠈⢻⣆⠀⣴⠟⠉⠀⠀⠉⠻⣦­⠀⣰⡟⠁⠀⢻⣆
⣿⣦⣤⠤⣴⣿⣴⣿⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣿⣦⣿⣦⠤⣤⣴⣿
╚═══════════════════════╝

I don't know what I was looking for,
in the honey draped lights flashing
in my eyes
And the sound of music
that keeps on playing and playing

And the wind that laps over my face
as the world turns,
Like horses running on axis,
weaving through the lines of shadow
and fireworks
And in their trail, I found
stardust that shimmers and shimmers

I found it confusing sometimes
In the endless mirrors and lights
that spirals in my mind
Like vines coiled around poles
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  ⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀     ⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⢠⣾⣦⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⢠⣾⣦⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣉⣀⣴⣿⠋⠙⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣉⣀­⣴⣿⠋⠙⠃⠀
⠀⢰⡟⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡟⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠘⠃⢸⡿⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠹⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⢸⡿⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠹⡇­⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠑⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠙⠀⠀⠀

And the looming sweetness that lingers,
like pink foam swirling in my mouth

I smiled towards the dying sunset,
thinking it would last forever
I try not to close my eyes
and not be blinded
by the world slowly slipping
away

Before the music dies
Before the yellow stars burn out
You might not hear my voice
or even remember my name
But I just want you to know that

I was here

════⊹⊱✦⊰⊹════════⊹⊱✦⊰⊹════
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⡤⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀­⠀⢰⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⡆⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠈⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀

I found a box in the back of the closet,
wrapped up in brown paper.
I’ve long suspected it was hidden
somewhere in that house-
the house that I grew up in.
It's taped shut and there is
nothing written on it anywhere
but it sounds like maybe there
could be something important inside.
I really do want to open it
even though I’m hoping
my suspicions were mistaken
And there is nothing in the new found box
but a photo of our family.
ljm

Christmas suddenly got broken.
Who bumped the branches,
Who kicked the stand.
How did that gust of noninvolvement
Shake the bough so roughly that
A priceless piece shook loose and fell.
No hope of gathering up the shatters
Into something lovely once again.
Only sweeping up the fragments
And rearranging all the others
to make it not so obvious
That something beautiful is gone.

What will heal this wounded day.
Can one corral the scattered shards
Of joy and rescue the important one
To keep alive the gleam of hope
That is the reason to press on.
It cannot be done alone, oh no -
The task requires both hands of two
So with the rising of the sun
Will those ten fingers join with mine
To make a grasp that will not break.
ljm

yes, in full possessive of all the typical, ****** wearing-out diminishments and diminutions

so no surprises, that I’m squinting to see my own personal
street signs two blocks ahead, in case a dreaded left turn be
required

I hear eventually what your thinking, by the second, third rep, I am fully informed of your opinion and am left wondering why people blather rather than win some, with  
a winsome smile

but it  catches me unaware that my voice, (its tones, notions,and colorations) is softer, though not purposed or so intentioned,this is puzzling, so wrestle for the whys, as is my wont, for explicating my existence be my full time employment and time is  overly plentiful and it’s steady evaporation is not the diet I am needing or even
embracing

perhaps, (always a multi-perhaps), mine aging grants an edge-softening, the brain regulates away the shouting urgency of what seemed important, demandy &needy for immediate attention, has a natural implant subtly started subtracting and governs my always was voluble but less-than-valuable insistence to be heard above the raucous din of the world~is~ending~
scarecrows

perhaps, it is something simple physic, but I deny that
escapism excuse, for yet, my bellyful laughter still loudest I know especially, at the ironical, comical of my mirror image rightly making fun of my vanity and even yet today, on a busy city street my senior YO! still summons taxis  to appear from
blocks away

perhaps, he flatters himself, his soon to be required stick will be so big, the need to speak softly intuitively concomitant, but that’s a lie as  he has no stick as of yet, ‘cept for the one he himself, he hisself, penetrated & perpetrated up his own ****

perhaps, just the intuitive or learned wisdom to think slower, talk lower, excise the waste of haste that plagues  the modern life, all that quiet, buttery yet uncool logic persuasion triumphs over the no-reasoned- shouting-pretense to be everybody’s exercised right
to be stupid

so many possible perhaps that this  listing is making me too, 
list to one side; perhaps, the list is so lengthy it requires a conservation of energy, and sotto voce approach to the so-much-of-everything
yet unanswered,

but perhaps,
I  just have less to say and
it comes out of me,
softer and wiser…ha!

perhaps, time has worn me down into a…
**a modulated man

I eat, sleep, breath a self rendition
A puppet acting what should be,
The greatest work of art;
Life

Yet, arms and legs
Are bound in fallow strings;
Like earth-binding vines,
meant to drag the angels down

Never hold tight;
Gripping all our mistakes,
Like a life-raft,
In a churning sea, we have yet to understand

All footsteps,
Disturb the gravel ground,
As we lead them,
Or they lead us,
Towards whatever goal we choose