It's a spare night
Where Time
Takes the back seat on the ideals

Of

Fat aftermath and big mouths
That I can't seem to get
Enough of are ping-ponging
My ideals which I was only given
In a sentimental, pseudo Christinan
Nature.

Mother, you were I
Before me,
And will always be
Better for it.

I'm lackluster too, branded
And dragging
My bare bone self burning for an idea
That I was the I

I could eventually fall in love with for good,
If never.

Oh' the love
Of loves
Of known tragedies
That follows our every footstep
Knowing full-well life,
Is nothing

But the echo of them;

The aim
Being
To turn them off
So

To turn on, once again,

As we were when children.

-

Night has the day
By a long haul.

These lungs need to breathe
Danger, because a
Stale outlasting diamond mine
Balancing acts of love
Becomes

Sad mournful eyes
Indebted with the holes of the forgotten
Man, cornered
By their own misgivings,
Keeping them from the one they should know best -

Their other.

Imagine a curb,
Rounded and sun beaten.
There's the taste of the tongue
Of Friday.

Everyone's out.

Inhale, exhale (yeah, I'm alive; alive)

And then you cross the street only to be

Mixed in it like a potato in a stew; an

In addition to the addition

To,

Everything.

Ego steps in,
Tries
To try to define,
A knee ****
Reaction for a futile
Preservation.

Fading, cast in smoke, and then,
You are there,
In disbelief of yourself stealing
The ideals of who
You imagined

And the mirror
Of which,

It presents.

There see, I see, you see,
An absolute that, if meditated upon
(forget time)

Will be, will be

You,

A breath,

Of fresh air in a sky,

Aflame.