Far from folk who would listen, you call out into the wind;
"If only you knew just how lovely you are."
And from the mountains
However faint, it calls back;
If only you knew just how lovely you are.

But listen close to its call, and the voice rings familiar.

a trembling candle flame
spluttering and unsure of itself
but casting a warm light nonetheless
you blew it out
and then used the still hot tip
and pressed it to
my wrists
my neck
my heart
and said ‘we can still be friends’
i knew it wouldn’t last
and i was right

the problem with “unspoken understandings”-
words never said but meant to be known, is that sometimes
there is no understanding at all,
just hushed words
whispered into a telephone
with a muted receiver.

there are those who live to see
and those who live to be seen

myself, i'd like to know
so I can placate my perils
of indirection and indignation.
to douse the flame of uncertainty
and quench this abysmal curiosity.

when the day ends,
I don't know
whether I see or am seen

my faith will falter
my ache won't alter
the afflicted anger
Still hoping it will waver.

you once lived deeply within some passion,
  met it head on, ember-laden,
    and self-assured.

its completion priming a response to share,
  for some ephemeral happiness,
    snared closed to what you'd say was
      "honesty" or "openness."
a truth that even you don't know. but it wasn't that.

winter's edge has dulled those senses,
  mellowed it, twisting into irregular sleep,
    multitude bad habits,
      disdain for the art.

just shy of two turns at half-light--
  theatre has grown stale.

inspiration comes and goes, flickers inconstant,
  meteoric;
    and with each passing flame,
      you grow more weary.

I feel the words coming back
and I’m not sure if that is good or bad
I write and write
only when there is unending turmoil inside
strengthened by the fear
that I may be getting bad again
sad
lost
trying to maneuver my bones
in this lightless room
I was not equipped
to be in charge of my body
on another trip into the darkness