the content of cold language

birds on a wire,
kryptonite jeans,
all the pharaohs are dead
solid on butts and black coffee
i push fat words
through thin membranes

what happens when style is denied?
does insanity capture the ego?
and if so, how can i master
this detached destiny

perhaps there is no solution
as the crickets continue to sing
and we strive
towards lengths of no consequence

tired and reaching for
one last moment of anticipation
the past laughs at the present
and the future cries for the past
as mad clerics and capricious maidens
dance with the moral enchantment
of an unbalanced symmetry

i don’t want to wander
too far from love
because empty nights
are kept company
with hollow cans
and cracked hands
grip cigarettes of self destruction

irregular stimulation,
as narrow years
are driven delicately
towards a soft reset
i’m flirting with the end
in a pixelated landscape
of unfamiliar entries

kicking rays of absent sunshine
over another dim horizon
should we endure this
abstract entertainment?
or should we create
a contemporary cadence
of calculated awakenings?

perhaps i will
continue to craft words of harmony,
retire to the wind,
and forget this endless game
of random repetition



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