Uncounted words on the page, attempting to mimic brilliance
Predictable as playing Russian roulette with an automatic
Forced sterility, impossible as drawing a straight line
The wrist won’t comply, simply cannot, no reason to attempt it
We fool ourselves with second hand ambition, discard our
own greatness
Quiet and sublime, carelessly letting our spark burn out
Do you remember what it was to be a child?
Nothing but used up memories with no sound
Black and white like some old movie, lips moving, no voice
Barefoot dreams are all that remain for me
Empty promises made to one’s self, surrendered so
easily
Nights of Bach on the radio, hiding behind closed doors and
cheap wine
Days of endless monotony, dark stairs and the smell of
scrubbed mildew
An afternoon spent in your arms, making love under the
pecan trees
I almost saw your yesterdays, beautiful creature, when I met your
eyes, laying there
A little girl, running with a sparkler in each hand, screaming her
defiance to the world
Holding onto what’s left of each other, two halves, trying to make a
whole