[Hermit]
/ˈhɝmɪt /
A recluse; someone who lives alone and shuns human companionship.

One last promise of a kiss; but who hears the words of
someone’s misplaced lips— Memories are all archived, those
experiences, a treasure to bury deep in the chambers of a heart
And any extra time: an excuse for me to procrastinate…how I
choose to express my reasoning, is an explanation for another day

for the all the memories we had, will all remain locked away
our experiences a treasure I’ll never get the pleasure to
saviour in their worth. and any reason to chase after them
all in a day, becomes the procrastination of tomorrow…
our story ends here

In a thin book of divination; the conclusion of a love
that had the fill of a loaf of bread- here we are- with the
crumbs, holding onto what’s left. There is no grasping it.
All climaxes eventually fall into the obscurity of being
an old familiar harmony; the laughs of many, soon becomes
the quit chuckles of one who sits later alone. And all joyous
songs must play their very last chord

anticlimactic will be the story of us, painfully laughing ourselves
to sleep— those fortunate enough to sing our once beautiful song-
the words, chords, keys, and harmonies are all gone…
our story ends here

I am something inadequate; a follower to the gun,
the bullet that led me astray in its cold lead. Still don’t
lend me your sorrow; shunning the idea of love
For the gun that killed a benevolent concern, was
a gun I had pointed at myself.

                                          …Bang!

.

i wake before the others                                                     
                                          betraying the family bed
conduct domestic procedure                                 
         (the sun has yet to rise and punish)
the rooms are illuminated       with the city dim
   projected from streetlight in
a dossing grain of orange                        
                   wiltered by the sheets          
 we use to cower our windows
 
in this near light i go to spread a morning meal
a tray of fruit, yogurt and breakfast biscuits
i bring it too our low living room table
but Abrupt !                                                            
   ­    there is a form   occupying the table

i scout for a spot to place my wares                            
put the tray / direct contact / the floor
                         and make a closer examination
on the table                                                            ­        
it is a soldier boy       simple      life spent out

this warrants artificial light                                      
i pull the cord on the corner lamp                      
   in a glimpse of eyes the bulb pops dead
               i know i won't meet result this way
its a brain pattern going on  i determine        
   and remove shrouding from a street view
orange wash lends  to the olive uniform
both hands hitched                                                
to his webbing   in the middle of his chest
helmet discomforts  his head turned to a side
eyes yelling a relaxed nothing                  
no surprise to his ****** features
boots that haven't even made mud yet
this is clean    but   for the blood reduction
a syrup for his presentation
no fooling  and there is.. the gun                          

the child in me and the child in him want it
he makes seventeen at most
and it is now i feel
when i see the device

war oversees
makes international the weather