the crumpled corpse of yesterday
settles soft within my heaving chest
the morning dawn purged and naked
its discoloring lies
another vast temptation
another obscurely enscribed stone
to curl against
unyielding and insignificant
as this resolve to live on and on and on and on …

life is not short, only memory is

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these thoughts do skip sight
and hover above
off they go again
on butterfly wing

and a myst of pure intention

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the floodgates have no pressure
the verse has no logic
the romantic has no love

____

so here I perspire
awake in the rudest sense of the word
every morning this wordless anxiety creeps
to deaden my intellectual fingertips
the once coiling, constrained mind
branded with a scream of passion
has healed and dissolved
into another fading scar of indefinite reminiscense
and intention

dubious is the adjective for this descriptive
these in between mementos
the ones i clutch upon with ghost chains of meaning
merciless is the clock which in these postmodern modern times does not tick
but silently counts away a secret rhythm
a death parade with pendulum lowering gaily to and fro

for if i cannot feel the impatience of living
then death will surely remind me of the certainty in expiring

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when love has no meaning
just another 4 letter word
obscenely easy to abuse
whisper or shout in mock emphatic desperation
when communication
is not so much connection
as it is a tool
an agenda
crafted with ideology and emotion
to give a sense of purposeful veneration
for a war that needs to be fulfilled and justified

and with that freedom it died …

the world cannot sustain this insurrection
of alien intent

it will be the last stand

“The veneration of man has been misdirected” -Lucretia Mott
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