Woman, tradesman, addict?
A wad of paper tossed along, kicked through the dirt
Without a message sketched, without a voice of reason,
Can be trampled underfoot without reason or need.
The air is cold now, and its gotten easier to breathe.
But these breaths are empty and shallow,
Like transient spirits sustaining life, but not
Lingering long enough to infuse them with light.
I've been walking here for long enough
To assume I've reached what can be measured.
But this tower of babel is less than termite mounds.
And much more fickle apparently.
Permanence, and comfort, are images now.
Memories now.
Where can I call home, when can I see it.
The drunken nights and trivial smoke, and
Images of falsified and self proclaimed art
Blemish time and experience of life.
Is this my story? Or my life?
Is it worth watching?
Is this medal shining my prize or knife?
But, with hope or despair, I am.
Steeled image of life, in empty glory,
In ancient archaic honor.
I shield myself in intellect,
And wield condescension
Like isolating weaponry, proudly,
And feebly.
Can I still sing your song?
It fails to elevate life now.
Can I live in light of experience,
Or is it muddling life now?
I've sought my image,
And what it means, but stop
Short of seeing my skull.
The flesh, of flame and old dead cells,
Is falling away, but I still can't find
The skull.
Look harder now.
Look deep.
Like the ancient lion's image,
All I have,
Is the inability to fall asleep,
A life of dreams.
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