Window cracked- 65,
In what seems, like 30’s
The likely capped end-speed
Portent subdivisions, split,
by lines afar, glowing
pastels covet night, flickering
cast of moon’s radiant height—a quivering
amends the harbinger’s sight, clashing
with one’s wherewithal, as fate
relates akin—rapturing a lost fight’s sanctioned state—
unto the parallelisms, the shifting lines, the origami structures built within
Belladonna, blissfully close, eyes arrest, encaged
again, by the prematurely postured dream—
Relishing the happenstance of SRO’s unmitigated stance, especially since promotion’s long since been scrubbed and left to chance—
Of an ignorance indicting slow, the plausible power of the spreading word
Angular brickwork, to which the conscience swerves, observing the bedrock that’s home to such machines abandoned—to rest, in limbo, beneath a starless sky—yet the signs and signals warn still—to which you question, not the thought, but the belief that they’re awake with you this stretch of night
Escape though you shall, untagged and free, breaking away from obstacles seen, unto an open space of asphalt’s generous creed—
drifting behind a steady coaster, oblivious to what time’s been spent— watching the horizon spread aglow—
The lines flashing in fictitious streams, brokering this big city’s life, offering, but another grail you’ll never know, if this sleep continues glimpsing through it’s deadly flow
To which forcibly you pry ajar, the lids betraying you now…in the deadliest of subtle drips a-glance, accosting the reality forming it’s surreal syndromes allured, upon such corruptible states,
You are broken, you are weak…the knowledge is fierce…this straight-line will not stitch together seams, instead incomplete you’ll quickly see, as song’s blare quickly collapse, broaching caution’s warning once more—
As this slippage begins to fray apart, focus weaves and warbles timid slow, breaking into waves of rhythmic flow, careening lullabies the screaming child in you seeks, and through this and other forces unrecalled, fade you swim, out from and into such seas of unanswerable melodies
A quick purge pronounces shock,
In quick flashes you are not convinced
This is not but a continuance of some
Severe reel of dream—playing, deadly games, the deadliest of larcenies…. where the mile markers indicate just how far you’ve travelled since, the last wince aware you were
And before the curtain calls again,
You know where this path must now go,
scanning the exits for
any inn with vacancy to spare, only
needing a door to lock, and a bed to
regenerate what’s been lost
is all you desire….exhaustion,
as navigator…there have been
worse guides
