I know of clocks that render time
and stretch the shadows toward the skies
The weight of waiting for her world
is like waving white flags in disguise.

I know of books that have no words
yet each page filled with grammar marks.
The motif is often misconstrued
as each day spills into the dark.

Some get butterflies inside themselves.
But all I’ve got are dead cocoons.
A life which hoped to spring forth new
a death which loomed forth much too soon.

I’ve seen porcelains survive a drop
and climb to heights of mezzanines.
In reverse, the verse said that’s enough
so I began my steps in wandering.

I came across a set of stairs
upset I stared and steered away.
The fragile state of seeming plain
increased my odds of being changed.

I know of dreams that dictate words
for me to write in schemes of lines.
Cliches and thoughts and adages
repeat to her in rehearsed lies.