Friday, December 30, 2016



He stepped out for a while, to find some quiet time
Perhaps he's tired of this and that, of things defined
Being judged, misunderstood, misaligned 
With the parameters so clear, rigored, almost a crime.

His boundaries have collapsed, shattered and scattered
The frame is broken and the image spills, voices chattered
Upon an open grave, milk on a tiled floor, splattered
As if he didn't care, beyond the field nothing mattered.

It's not dark yet, he'll be back, shaking his thoughts away
Talking to himself, questions with answers, a mind astray
The picture is there, waiting, while he wonders what delay
The rest have in seeing what he sees, the motion of decay.

The words rest now upon his weary thoughts, too little time
Collecting the philosophy of others as a fence consumed by vine
Not baring fruit, not gesturing to others which way to climb
Reassured, resurrected, breathing quietly, smelling decay divine. 

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