there's a car not drifting by, there's a voice
not being heard.
there are steps not being taken
outside on the dark street,
but then again that might just be me.
as the silence fills in, i try to inaugurate new ways
to neglect that it has even been here,
has ever loomed over my soul
(i pretend
and fail to accomplish, but the mission is just too
difficult for my childish hands).
and i read over all the things i have already read
tonight, as if the answer for my prayers could be found
in the words of mortals, because if they are, i have
yet to find
proof

that one day, oh maybe for one fleeting second
you ever thought i might just be
the answer to your calls and quests, the ideal
of something that no one can ever quite match,
the epitome of the longing imaginarium that you
carry inside, like the rest of us, just flesh and blood
mortals, the one vision, incubus of ambiguous substance
that your heart can't deny itself.
call it noble, call it gallant, but love has never
interest me.
the songs it sings, the blood is rushes, the
the hearts it steals, the dreams it envisions
are just a new form of  destroying whatever
rationally brings.
must we forever suffer this burning *****,
with such bittersweet ache?