Rust corrupts the floor through a presentation of bubbling rage. Focus flees from me as I attempt to grasp it like wind. Cold coffee from a dusty old can and a paint stained binder, touched by many finger prints. For poetry, I attempt to persevere, though even my writing lives amongst chaos. It’s as if I am the tree, my thoughts the twigs compiled into a jumbled mess and I’m left wonder if the eggs inside will ever hatch.
The prophet, my second attempt reads. What if the answers I need are hidden amongst the pages ? Waiting behind the black stripes on the cover. My mind flits to you like eyelashes fluttering under a blinding light. You’re a pitcher of water filling my glass, but we’ve hit too close and now I’ve cracked. I can’t ask you to fill me faster than I leak, simply an old poster of a once beautiful scene.
Withering away from the environment. What again ? Was the dream that it portrayed ? I asked the golden sands what dream it had gave, but for me he had nothing more to say.
Sometimes I wonder… The mountain tops we see, so calm in their sleep. I wonder if they willingly fold so that we might climb and for a moment breath. Then the highest outlines leading to peaks to which we wouldn’t dare to creep, are simply unwilling to deceive us into thinking they’re simply rocks compiled to sit under our feet.
There are many languages I’ve begun learning to phrase. All have yet to assure me that words will ever really be enough. We see the collision before it occurs, but in truth none of us really look. I could write you a book on all the things overlooked, but that would entail that I myself am not also blind. In reality it seems all this questioning is simply rather deafening to my mind.
How many senses do we each really even have ? I wish to be touched but reject the scenario because I have yet to be touched in a way that skin can only mimic in this tangible world. I crave to taste, for at least when I consume there is something left inside… inevitably breaking down like every other fickle thing we perceive as strong.
Only improperly do I call them things. Though I suppose a thing is what I too am. Does anyone care to debate ? I close my eyes and as a prophet may perceive the future, I remember my past.
My darling sandman, how could I have left you so dry ? I asked you for a dream when you were already mine. Now rather than a pitcher, you’re regarding me like dry sockets where tears can no longer cry. I think now it is time, I learn to focus in my own right. Then maybe we can share an ugly truth rather than a beautiful lie.