My love is now a swamp
in the Poem Factory.
See, I've been keeping mean
on lack of sleep and ****,
******* at yesterdays;
an old dog's tricks,
an old man's routine.

The lung of water is thick
with chemicals; still-water bleach.
I've been trying to clean up my act,
you see;
bend my back into a yoga pose
and question what it means to be free.

I haven't found the answer yet,
but it comes in the moments
I don't question it.

It comes in the wake
of a happenstance lyric;
some eloquence through anxiety.

My love is angry heat,
a mirage across the street.
See, desperation leaves a scent
and an aura of hopelessness;
my dreams of ***
lift up from my tea,
steam buffeting from me.

The pipeline swallowed air
in the Poem Factory,
solitude, the hopeful dream;
isolation, the reality.