Those who could read my story
from patterned splats of blood
against the frozen shadow
of my exhausted temper
are gone from close embrace
and sit lonely with their souls
so very far from my fall.
I sit discounted
with a history never sought,
now with me like an old friend,
(I can't quite remember her name),
knowing never what passed by
during the shadow's sleek dispose.
Have I been wrung silly
by life's cruel restraints
enough now to stumble
across obstacles impossible
for any conscious entity?
Is it easy for the ignorant
to make a random path
so agile across a lifetime
that fate never detects
such an shallow passage?
Youth has no wisdom
and age only little freedoms.
Counting the odds
and figuring the throw.
Time comes upon
and says end.
I thrust out my mortal chest
against the howling wind
blasting with elapseless vigor
rounding all fashion
into milled trivia.
Watching painted toes
fingers and cheeks
streaking across screens
projected
through a thin defense
of empty education.
the lost time,
the forgotten sun
shifting through an ignored sky;
those few new years
slipping through
everyday conclusions.
No, let's turn away,
then turn back,
then turn the station,
then cave to sleep.
No one asks the questions
that no one wants answered
so no one's uncomfortable
when that last icon is felled
by a barter hidden
from every single opening
left forgotten,
hallow and moaning,
unused.
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