faces from nervous worlds
hollow and certain
continue to impose fresh illusions
for the sleeping masses to carry
there is no silence
as soft men drone
and hard women moan
heroes aren’t born
they’re fabricated
in fractured factories
of naive fatalism
some of them run,
run with fists raised
towards the sun
while others,
others just sit,
sit and dream
of curious and furious ways
to disturb this awkward matrix

i used to run
and sit
but now i float,
float conveniently on an iron web
slightly out of balance
caught between
hesitation and creation
perhaps we seek these
smooth secrets
wrapped in serenity
as art
like love
bleed slowly
from our passive souls
waiting for this
irregular paradise to arrive