Is this real or is this entrapment?
Minutiae dances along my margins
passable wraiths skirting
an improbable darkness.
We glimpse one another
beneath lowered lashes,
two indisposed hearts
on the brink of trespass.
Why is it that a suitable destination never arrives?
We are out of season,
stalking through drifts of star light-
white or yellow- vehemently inconsistent.
If this is a mistake then it bares repeating.
I have yet to break the surface
suspended in half truths
I am soon to become obsolete.
There are too many doors in this hallway,
too many choices that I cannot make,
too many hooks and premises.
Madness is an acknowledged peek
at the unseen universe.
It exists certainly but to see it
one must remove their eyes
(figuratively of course).
Sometimes I catch myself
looking at ordinary things
but are these habits and affectations
markers of sanity?
Is it sane to assign value
to the inherently worthless
and labor endlessly for its acquisition?
Do we fear death because it is the only outcome
or because it cannot be translated to the individual?
And is death really a must have
or is it an acquired taste?
Whether or not there is enough love
factors heavily into the equation.
Practicality is just another form of anesthesia.
I would share the breadth and bluster of my experience.
We do not speak of facts
which can only elucidate need
but of feelings which are imprecise
and by their nature uncharacteristic.
You are my exception, my desire,
my gasping, exonerated breath.