Pasting pastel photographs along a hallway wall will never save.
Each print entices nothing but the nonsense of today for me.
I find it that way, so hard to be so simple. Again.
Silence grinds itís way through chemicals,
right there into the frail center of it all.
And just when I thought I could swing,
for an hour in an afternoon -
somewhere in a field where sun spoke soft, I fell.
It's glow warming my exterior, though I knew it not be true,
it rarely is, especially now.
I wonder if each motion I go through could somehow be fluid pushing,
or electromagnetic fields guiding me instead.
Oh I can tell a story on the subway,
convince a crowd around, the day is done. What sun?
There is no waiting at the next stop,
there is no garbage on the floor -
so I hear, across the rattle of the cages lined inside.
Pastel only nauseates the ones who know, you know.
How sickening to sell yourself on the idea that it was truth,
each frame encasing something I once tried to believe,
almost, to live enough to see, but not me, today.
Swinging only stirs what I will lose,
and Iím an ache away from landing here,
cold against the hardwood,
among a row of photographs, surrendered.