too real for now

no good at love
no good at life
caring isn’t sharing
and this noble head
is held in hands trembling
and tired

woe to the fallen hero
with tragic revelries entertained
heir to winter’s spite
a vagabond of solstice twilight
with a heart dampened and constrained

surrounded by four walls yellowed
with stale cigarette smoke
i sit under empty stars
while cats claw
these dusty couches

it’s omnidirectional loneliness
created with distant words
and holy deeds
poetic logic is evicted
leading to sacred scarring
of internal needs

symphonies of sad poets
permeate the air
as i sip gated memories like
a vintage glass of wine
remembering
what was so easily forgotten
struggling to pass the time
in hopes of a revelation
to type an eternal rhyme

wandering, wondering
when to pray
i still have daydreams of you
and i think of how we never danced

i’m not a melancholic man by nature
it’s just that
the word manifests
within certain maladies
and sadness seems the only way
to create a meaningful line
is that the exception to the rule
or to one man’s blues

this end is virtual
contrasting and conspiring to
subsidize and sterilize our
seasonal ruin
i want to stay where it’s comfortable
but safety only kills you slowly
on the inside

bend and descend
into this maelstrom
of longing and regret
waiting for the sunrise of renewal

i’ve marched past too many
open windows and closed doors
outclassed by
blessed drunks with input like
prophetic peasants held low
as they seek low-cost providence
and strike deals with a mystic healer
revisiting captured souls
recorded in naked tomes
revealing the mind’s slave dealer

almost old
and
almost bold
but too tired to recognize
the good times
with hands held still
covering misshapen eyes

there’s this nervous twitch
just below the eyelid
almost like morse code
but i can’t understand the message

i remember a strange wilderness
and the birth of dreams
a setting of sunshine
in the cosmic punchline
of this subtle poetry
now, no more human
than the last
and suddenly cast
as an odd machine

it’s always the same
with these heated beginnings
and the outcome rolls crooked
on a cheated roulette wheel

the wind still blows
but it sounds different
the sun still sets
but it looks different
i still fall asleep every night
but it feels different

sometimes love just dies
and sometimes our souls with it
cosmically set
to eventually pass

everything i have
is really nothing at all
i could give it all up
to live simple
just a stack of books
with cats and a dog
running around carefree
candlelight with soft music
a glass of wine
surrounded by art
and your smile to light the way

236-too-real-for-now

 

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