Intermediate Time

Minolta DSC

I wanted to be fifty
An arbitrary age
Embraced by the public
As a precursor of death
Or a lapis-eyed devil
Cackling a warning
As it dances ahead
Holding a placard
That says “Fifty-one this way”
And an arrow pointing left
Back the way I came
Like I believe in time travel
But I’m never going back
Forty-nine is near enough
But twenty is lost to me
Awkward as a newborn kid
I’m not ever going back
But Sixty-one might be nice
If the arrow points right
If the stars align perfectly
Like dominoes in a row
Ready to fall together
How I envision Seventy
Attached to a lifeline
That contracts as I tug
And the time machine
Rusty from disuse
Sits sentinel over all
Tempting me with youth
Though it’s all been done
But Thirty might be nice
I don’t remember it anymore
From this side of the fence
Because the grass is long gone
And I want to see green again.

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Obscured

wp-1459456166534.jpgYou don’t know me
All the shapes and shadows
Coalescing to fill me in
Nothing but dust and smoke
Along for the ride
From Texas to Maine
And the spaces in between
But the radio’s always on
The silence deafening
In the midst of such sound
An overwhelming feeling
This loss of perspective
Fading with the miles
These starts and stops
Indicative of a chaos
That can’t help but rise
From the ashes of lust
As we stir the dust
Wishing for a reprieve
Or a type of prescience
Usually reserved for saints
But the silence stretches
No words to fill it in
No shapes to make it whole
Until I finally realize
That you don’t care
And this knowledge heals
As it also burns white hot
Searing my soul from inside
Cleansing this dead thing
That you never knew
Bringing a sort of clarity
While I look in the rear view
Expecting to see you
But you’re already gone
Lost amidst the shadows
Of what I thought I knew.

A Sort of Love

Love-Heart-3d-WallpaperThey mock me with distraction
These turners of a phrase
With their fragmentary smiles
That betray a kind of derision
A legion of platitudes
Designed to manipulate
To function as a sort of love
Born from death and decay
And a willingness to deny
These warning signs
This lack of coherent sympathy
The need to identify with pain
Searing and indiscriminate
A way to delay the inevitable
But it floats on seas of glass
Impenetrable as a fortress
The language of disruption
Couched in particularities
Bathed in functional lies
Fearing the consequence
That comes with realization
Of a transitory feeling
A fluctuating abnormality
That looks an awful lot like love
But never can be.