I woke up at angles with you
---a parallelogram, opposite but equal,
my thoughts in constant rotating view
---a diagram, showing us where
our homes are laid to rest,
where streets became dead spiders
caught in their own webs.

If we are in transit via tunnel,
aqueduct, or escalator,
it might be cinema.

If we lose atlas in the worship of light,
it might be cinema.

But I can't find you here;
here, where they used to build ships
from sand and steam
and science fiction;
where they used to design
buildings so as to create
a dissonant and mournful
whistling sound when wind
blew through them
---ostentatious things;
dead people’s things.

Through walls and underneath concrete, dug so deeply
into the wide plains
and withered, gnarled tree roots
of an agonizer's conurbation,
is a space halfway to the zenith,
charting the prescribed power
of in-betweenness.

Never again will we draw meaning from
our proximity to one another.

the time that you told me to die
was painful that I didn't even try
slapping you

I don't know if you lied
but all I knew was it was possible
that you wished I did

I tried to make it up to you;
avoiding hurting you
with the fist,
and temper of mine

I just wished you noticed that I tried;

Yes, I've grown distant,
trying to find one's self;
I was occupied, sad, and alone.

Too busy to find friends,
that won't discard me when I needed someone

I guess that I pushed you away
so that you won't be like me.
An envious, gullible fool
but
as I did,
the more you become
a little more
like me.

We're the opposite of each other
but undeniably similar.

In greenness of your shinning eyes
I saw my old and present self.
There were some things you had described
That I could understand quite well

I had some moments of a-ha,
But from my face you couldn't tell.
A lot in common we have got,
Which honestly felt great.

He trails.

He turns.

He falls behind.

But always discerns.

Fortunately our tastes for this
sort of life coincide,
except in the matter of sunrise,
which he likes to see up and dressed,
and I from my bed.

In streams of verse and congealed words or metaphors' twists and turns,
a poet paints upon minds canvas a view of where visions do etch souls with their burns.

Unique the transcribed observation to reveal the newborn vistas as witnessed there,
Perhaps to light the great mysteries of love and hope or uncover veiled shadows of death and despair.

With each new vision transcribed and the telling of what that mind has known,
Comes the realization by the transfixed readers that they truly are not so alone.

Shared idea, thought, hope and dream to which we can see and draw some link,
where poet reminds we are all but human and not as different as we so often think.