It's alright that
What we do
Is everything
But
Possible.

A last ditch
Attempt
Toward the beautiful.

It's ok
When sweethearts
Becomes
Death tarts.

There's no one to blame
For the obligatory
Future.

I ask,
Hello?
And I
Compliment,
You are beautiful.

No response from the face.

What
To do
When the glasses
In front of us
Are empty?

I explore
Till the end.

One can only
Continue.

I tell so to grant
Debauchery, villainy, drunkenness.

For the fiends
Whose leave
Is two years away without
Grant or pardon.

Everybody loves a war.

I am nothing
But
A life
Of the mind, tethered
To a
Rock-battered body

One idea, two idea...
One after
Another.

Why feel guilt?
Why feel glory?
Why feel satisfaction
From chance
Creation?

We are all
Fly fishermen.

Why feel
There's more to
Give than
That?

The marmalade
Melts
On the veranda.

A cumulus  
Cloud
Ignites into a firecracker
Mimicking
An unguided
Missile.

The mask whispers
To the mirror on
Opening Night,

An artist
Is only
As good
As

Their choices.