muse is a dim witness

the now is undone and so it is that your eyes look at me, destined to decay in my mind mere moments later ... I'm in a hurry; I take aim, I steer a sky into shape, a battlefield of predetermined conclusions and I'm trying to swallow down the strobe-lit reverse hallucination awash in the possibility of ghosts at every turn, or violent blossoms soaking the sidewalk

I would prefer to have real feelings and/or be able to make you think that these steps I am taking are important and should be emulated, but I am still here, frozen, unblinking, happy to steal your soul for another key to bliss

all those yesterdays imploded and reshelved like glassware, like soap detergent that will never wash away all the ills, parasites dressed up in their Sunday best, leering like ministers bundled in sheep's clothing

I wish I didn't have these distractions, but at the same time, I don't want to be just another part of you, and you, and you

Monica, unremembered

I feel that awkward energy that, if it eminates from within me, comes from somewhere dormant like a volcano gone bright, kinetic and ready to mutate the landscape. It's in your eyes and your shape and maybe somewhere down deeper, where blood runs like land in its youth, unseen, expanding, at war with itself. Why else would reciting your name open such secrets? Why do I forget everything that made up my world? What is this image that I perceive but no longer exists after words are spoken and ideas exchanged?