do i worry, distant and cold, silver and silence. remembering the foxes, fleeting and frivolous. the disaster tourist i am. come down to where the water meets the banks of the st. mary's and whisper "welcome petty pulchritude of an abased attraction!", atoms and molecules repel and combine building substance from inconsequential abyss. it is the maiden's hand that i held so fondly in my distant memory, her smile stuck to my eyes like mirroring glass can fake a multitude of identities. so pour me out i dont mind, this life is not my own, tie me up! untie me! all this wishing i was dead is getting old, its getting old! though i the spectator watched in a distant grace, combining my history of an inherited sorrow with the fickle fingers on a gilded ladder with nails i climb to find the holes. a simple saint says, "these lives are not our own! even the wind lay still,our essence is fire and cold, and movement, movement! if they ask for a sign of the Father, tell them its movement! movement! and repose." midwest queen.
walks the line if ambivalence.
holds me as a jester holds his scepter of jest.
jaunt. jeer.
i will stay inside today though i have already composed a poem of love on a day i should have remained outdoors away from thinking of her.