I’ve time to heal and mend the ties between old friends, to reassess my daily spend; my life, till now, again.

There’s every chance I’ll die without ever knowing why my better’s best and spirit’s high when I don’t seem to try.

Come morning, wake from sleep and reap the daily keep, thy eye is blind and would not weep nor creep for nothin’ cheap.

With course I must contend, and preach as I pretend, at least I’ve time to reascend; my life, till now, again.

Traveling backwards on a train can skew your point of view; transfixed upon the stitching, not the pattern made for you.

To the last, I’m rosy; with so much left to give, and not one inch comes undeserved. I’m left perturbed I can’t give more or draw this scene for evermore.

It’s time. My line will be blunt; what use is there in fabrication, dressing up an ugly truth, or pretending coal is gold? I’m old enough to live life better, to play love smarter, and know to be kinder…

* interrupted. Days have passed since last I cast this thought toward the rock I caught my net upon; another gone, forget and long for yesteryear when truth-be-out was without fear.

The line remains upon my tongue; sung, flung, wrung n’ hung – the line remains, the fire remains and stains disdain into refrains that sing like stings before they’ve stung, like pins in skin and lightning lungs – the line remains upon my tongue.

I was having a lucid dream, willing myself to make a move, to pull you closer. So when I woke in your arms, I knew not where, when, what, or how I ever came to be so close to heaven, or whether still I dreamed.

For when I kissed you, it was impossible to tell the difference between the two.

A kind of anti-meditation; instead of emptying my mind of all those noisy complications, I encourage, indeed strive for, another wild imagination, another way to breathe some life into these lines of my creation.

Familiar situation. I’ve been twice around these railway stations, looking for the train or track that houses my salvation; but the platform’s cold, the seats are old, and I’m running out of patience.

There’s little magic in this leisure, where once it offered worlds of pleasure. Even the tragic words held beauty, where now, contrived, they smell of duty.