coming blue the nightfall, agency, and ill-repute -- orange, the horizon, life itself, a hard commute -- finding in the violet, narcissism worms its way toward a yellow yielding -- heaven promised, hell to pay -- they, the young in gray time, "privilege" -- linguistic hex -- but, the blackening shadows see her looking for what's next
they kissed inside the copse, and loved within the glade. these words fell out of use; their love's no longer made, for it, too, fell into disuse. but such are life's cruel dealings: we will lose definitions, the same way we lose feelings
her mom used to wash her hair in the bathtub, and they would laugh over shapes in the bubbles, back in her little girl days, before she herself became more serious, and her mom, more sad. she misses that time when the laughter she heard wasn't at the expense of others, and while there's no going back, she wishes she had taken more of that past with her
there in the past we were, but here, there's sameness, and there's tiredness; you watch romantic movies, and it isn't all that hard to guess that you wish you were somewhere else. it's not to wave our life away: just to be back inside the new when good-surprises led the day, and we were young. that thing we lose when careless years stack up on years, and we have less from which to choose in laughs, and far too much in tears. i wish that i could give you now the things you miss -- i miss them too -- but every day is like a gauge that falls, until the fuel is through. perhaps, a better use of time, is then to say what love can say: i'm here, i'll sit and watch with you, and we, at least, can share each sacred day
my friends, look deeply: enjoy this, savor it, for its time is short -- the first high hill of the roller coaster brings an exhilaration like no other
first, he wrote 100 lines of his undying, regal love; he kept it in a notebook wrapped in shadow -- he spoke to her in passing autumn, under dimming skies that flickered like his hopes, and her indifference. then, he crossed 100 lines, in mud beneath barbed wire; the friends he made and tried to save were all -- but in that bloody haze, he dreamed of softness, still, and coffee, and being purer, better, there with her. but she knew nothing of those lines, the written, or the wounded: she'd covered up her own scars very well -- 100 lines of red neglect, a mind turned out of season, and never dreaming anyone could love her
The dreams we treasure deepest We do not speak aloud; And sometimes, we don't even know We have them -- Until we see ourselves enact Some sort of non-auditioned script, And feel some inmost self Makes our decisions. And older people say, you're young. You'll understand, when you get old. But when we're old, we Leave it to the silence -- For hearts go where they will, and we Are dragged along behind them, To wake up to the wreck that's All around us
I called her on a Friday, To see if she was well; She told me she'd sold everything For two snails and a shell -- And so, I took her for a ride Out in the autumn air; We soaked in all that countryside And laid our secrets bare -- We climbed into an afterworld, Where silence was the rule: We broke into the one last vault For that remaining jewel -- I woke up on a Saturday Unable, much, to feel: I reached for her, but wasn't sure How much of it was real -- We heroes and we heroines Who grow up queens and kings Of snails and shells and countrysides And silences And things
Who was this friend you lost? He was A spirit floating in the air, A song you knew that suddenly Would morph, and change, and go somewhere It didn't seem to be made to go. The shape: a hole -- the place: within -- Who was this friend you lost? He was The 'is' within whatever's Been
