risen in the switchblade morning
and balanced on a
razor’s routine
there are
no circles now

the trinity calls
to a distant shore
and with an unforeseen encore
we are excommunicated
and left to eat crow

with signs unclear
and words as rough as
pan-galactic pavement
infinity stretches across
the living room floor
and white fires rage
inside a mind’s metaphor

letters are written
with a shaken hand
and strewn across the walls
of abstract denial
but the meaning is lost
with strained emotions
that continually exhaust

no more passion
no more mystery
no more
comfort
in the midnight trance

killed 3 times over
and resurrected
to submit to futility

the man
the woman
the story

is it finally over?