all the poetry in the world is fading,
a jumble of eloquent tucked into spools
of neglected reverie.
i thumb through the caustic champions
of my inner mythos
and find no Hercules.
only goats and knives.... swimming
in almost love.

Summer is a dull grain of sunlight.

but the horizon is far enough away to be a promise
for Now.
I seek it like i must be there to live more alively.
but cannot die for it as much as i want.
these are the symptoms of breathing.
breathing in the vacuum
of our choosing.
the urge is the force
that cannot live without your descent.
because hell is a place
made for you.