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.


2 thoughts on “There’s Always an Exception

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