I’ve found the less I say,
The more I stay
Awake,
Afraid,
Or just away.

Some broken cog inside my head,
Scrawls each word left unsaid,
Heinously,
Haplessly,
And always too hastily.

I keep myself on alert these nights,
As though another hour just might
Release,
Ordain,
Explain.

Have I tried to ignore you?
Dry your well of words
So you won’t be heard,
And I’ve done it before too.

Any word is only as valid
As what it represents,
Regardless of climb or descent,
Requiem or ballad.

I sift through adjectives and nouns,
Always looking for the verb.
Still the subject stands absurd
And the silence falls profound.

So maybe I ignore you still,
While you burn like Vodka in my gut,
But you’ll not prance and dance and strut,
Until some common use distills.

Comfortable enough to forget my place,
I overstepped my station again.
Crawling under the cover of grace,
But never to stand amongst men.
I still thirst some things in vain.
Why do we even know Priscilla’s name?

The poisonous bloom of tragic youth
Yielded its toxicity and tapered,
As the stronger undergrowth of organic truth
Choked its vitality to passing vapor.
All the while I fumbled with resistance,
Until truth transformed my base existence.

Told to kneel, given a reason to stand,
I do both in tandem, never sure whether
I kick the goads, or fight reprimands;
Do I tear asunder or tether?
Will there be peace in silence tomorrow,
Or just a rich young ruler’s sorrow?

Many thoughts weigh the heart,
And this tongue is no good rudder.
The answers are strewn too far apart,
The questions, one after another.
I believe: a gift above critique.
I believe, but can I speak.

You again,

And a wave of sentiment

Crashes into conscience

Diminishing both.

You punish,

With your own contentment.

Viewing me through the lens

Of distance and affront.

I miss

Sandy walks in the silence

Of kindness and mutuality

Even if a lie.

Silent gray masses oppressively pass us,

Perpetually preceding the storming,

But never enveloped, so nothing develops

Beyond the bleakest warning.

Pallor cannot instigate. Neither heat, nor rain, penetrate

The muted, mobile display.

Nor can thunder threaten to sunder

We who follow gray.

Time advances, but stasis reigns with no joys or pains

To pierce the mist.

The blanket of numb will keep undone

The fetish and the fist.

Yet echoes from the divide rankle inside

Even under sleeping fog.

There’s an impulse to fly, to see a clear sky,

Above our smothering smog.