Oblivious
to the scurrying feet,
moving to and fro,
sweeping furiously
to clean
his own
little part of the world,
toothless & smiling
wider than the cracks
on his brushed-artwork.

when i slip into
a phase, I find it
exhuasting now.

every minute, a test of character.
every hour, a new demon to fight.
They hide inside, chip away at the interior, until it's like peeling paint.
Those days, I feel barren and broken, my detail is failing.
I watch jagged pieces splinter away and drift in the air
cruelly landing underfoot in
the crackly, dead leaves
that the streetsweeper missed that week.

"But what if..." it says. And that's all it takes.

I become frigid inside.
I feel it slide in my brain, clicking
and prying inside.
crooning, throat just out of reach; caressing, hands just out of reach
until it slaps me to the familar ground,
where I frantically gasp.
It's laughing now, as I curl back to darkness,
wiping my silent tears from my red cheek and my cramping heart from my sleeve.
My head pounds as my
unwelcome, yet comfortable
friend of mine simply
opens the door.

I can't even lock it.

Architecture laid in the grimoire
a sketchbook of arcane blueprints
many-storied towers rising from the dust of time
and nothing, achieving the sky and ending abruptly
heads in the clouds, the end of the road
wish one might, with all their might
if only this could last forever
self-denied, glossy-eyed atop the height
that this red-yarn spun network is so delicate
tight-rope walking between two peaks
strumming the chord, straining the balance
giving and taking, waning, below there is the promised "never"
that fantasy of love, commitment to an institution
on either side are all the concrete hardships built by hand
that simmer on low, splitting hard lines in the spitting demands
letting go is easier than falling into the lurch to never know;
to forget, what it was like to be on solid land, fate tangled with arteries
in the roadmap that constructs the bustling cities, severed
a streetsweeper assigned to come and flood the needy
cleanse all these structures, hollow out all desire,
empty of trust they mean less and grow higher,
safe havens, home for multiples of two ravens
craven, warm by a trash fire, art deco lobbies and grandeur
gilded foyers, all signs point to something deeper, the surface of a liar
guarantees, contracts, no demolition, decay slow and crumble
no fault of the construction, blame time, the equation is out of our hands
it all comes together, separates and rises individually to its pinnacles, then falls apart slowly;
all according to plan.