at night we fall
into empty words
wandering a kingdom
of such dreadful reduction
as the kings of punctuation
distill marked confusion
and unravel
a symphonic simulation

quiet quarrel
as the queen of question marks
finds me seeking
spontaneous comfort
with a quatrain
of uncertain messages

empty reservoirs
and solid scars
traced on fleshy stars
of distant bazaars

phone calls captured
two minutes too late
as we run
from the human psychology
of abandoned astrology

there are just too many pencils
and not enough erasers

sometimes
when the brain is
bypassed
and the heart is set
to a certain
forecast
observations are
set free to roam
and empty reasons
are made whole