golden palaces seem so far away
and i still haven’t got used to
this abstract loneliness
too still
and
too tired
to fight
moving slowly from the center
i wasn’t meant for this
mental slavery
and cold eyes fear
the death of quiet routine
i’m a player
with no game to play
stuck on the holy number nine
waiting for love’s revolutionaries
and wandering ruptured wavelengths
in search of a kindred soul

sometimes life’s melodies
seem so muted
and other times
they rush and roar
louder than the open sea
i need a holiday
from muscle memory
i need wild flowers
and hot flesh
ransoming fate
for naked laughter
i pray for dramatic symmetry
so that one day
imagination
will become experience
and homemade passion
will shatter territorial silence
and warm this graveyard heart