Silence ticks,
time to stop, thinking too much, what you know not. Conscious nightmares, subconscious, surreal, invisible, engraved; how to feel, not to feel. Potions toxic, traveled exotic, tainted tactics, narcissistic narcotics. Throw up the Guns, Germs, and Steel, walls and precepts, too. Contaminated commerce of affection, that if only time were true.
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Your hands are worked,
and feet are worn, but the axis, it did not break. So the years were radical. Life, an economists dream; and with your steady gaze, a simple path it all seemed. I thank you for, the philosophies learned, sitting on porches - farm and lake. Not a word of yours, I hope you know, for granted did I take. Your hands are worked, and feet are worn, the axis, it did not break. The world is still rotating, and we're doing just fine. Your wise and gentle soul, held me together all this time. Brooding boy,
how I read you like Karouac, and sip on you like Jack. Reversing words, moments, memories; leave you longing for what could be, what should be, what-ever. You look at me like I'm magic, You look at me like a lover. But I'm On the Road already, I promise I'm not looking back. Your cinematic theories and flattery; solidarity and security lack. And while our mind's can meet, our bodies, can not. And as you look at me like I'm magic, You're right - I've already forgot. I'm On the Road already, time, a peculiar thing. But one day she will look at you, and you'll know exactly what I mean. The higher I get,
the closer I feel to you. Knowing the condensed molecules supreme, know the condensed time we'll see. As if they stay afloat, to remind us that something still can. As if she never sank, as if you never ran. You're almost a figment of my imagination. So I fill that void with heartless junkies. They run, run, run, it's normal to be left on empty. A promising pillow to fall onto, so airy and untrue. Still, when I'm up here looking down, with all the clouds, I think of you. Shut my eyes on the light, Wandering about like a listless soul,
she travels against time, relentless in rewind. I watch her speak with the wicked slow, she doesn't even think, she won't ever know. What have you made of this map, crossing out every way to go, when I'm just trying to leave, but she won't ever know. Millennium's ahead of the moment she calls now, whispers the excuses, but the denial screams loud. The burning of her bruises, and the dead calm in her eyes, flash before me for a second, like I don't see the disguise. What have you made of this map, crossing out every way to go, when I'm just trying to leave, but she won't ever know. Cause she doesn't even think, and she won't ever know. At least I can still feel pain.
But sometimes it's too much, And sometimes it's not enough. I don't want your numbers, they represent time, setting pace to a rhythm, but this rhythm has no rhyme. I'll paint my lungs in black, and all the walls in red, to remind myself, that I'm not dead. Her eyes matched the shade, of her lips that were stained, with the red from the vines, and the kisses she claimed. It doesn't stop, it just flies, the lonely aging of time, a reckless riddle with no rhyme. Living in color,
momentary absence of grey-scale. Everything is illuminated, everything, for now. "Pick your favorite star", you say, mesmerized by you, I am, on the cold beach, we lay, on the cold beach, for now. Distance a virgin pain, attachment, just as well. A suppressed deja vu, False innocence, for now. All in the same,
are we all in this game? Mad, crazy, driven insane, can't swerve out of the lane. Conflicting membranes they say, "<-- This way --> That way." All to claim the same name, just to start a new game, again, and again. What to do? No options, just a catch-22. |
Sydne Kilberg"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." Archives
February 2016
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