grasping at straws, the final fault your own undoing,
like a thread pulled slow enough to keep together while the rest frays.
the memories alive with a feeling long forgot,
the gullible future continuing to exist in vaporous fleet,
mercied not by the winds of change or time or guilt,
dispersed by a gust, spread to the arbitrary corners beyond the place less traveled.
freed by inclinations to be, take the last step into your first life apart,
now as one from the all, the last of the many,
the few of the rest of all of us, we tired and deceived.
the nonsensical whimsy that stems from gouging piercings lying
somewhere between your salivating acceptance of the unbelievable
and the germane remnants strewn threw the fingers
like a screen to mirrors previously unseen.
unseemly backlit daydrifts glitter
as perspiration on the mounds mounting higher
with each passing blade sparked at the slightest agitation
but never enough to light the way.
kindle be damned, gather the rest,
cup the ember before it groans, croaks, fades, and dies.
to your own lies be true.
to your own lies be always true.
(originally written: 02.10.16)