Or is it ?

The lonely wander with a sense of entitlement. Nothing belongs to them; they like it that way. With nothing and no-one to have, they are free to accept pity, sympathy. What they do not want is change, for one should never change their destiny, and loneliness is surely a destiny.

Acceptance

O skeleton tree,
you beautify madness
and embrace rejection.
my dreams, once alive,
turn to you for
solace.
they attach
to your thin, sturdy limbs
and weakly glow.
you rejoice, for with every
abandonment I create,
you grow stronger.
your roots, embedded within
my dream-heart,
slowly, wondrously, sap my resolve.
one day - for i sense it - i will be but
a memory, and
you
will stand tall.
O skeleton tree, you beautify madness.

A bottle of pretty poison
teetering on the subtle line
between the here and now.

A bottle of pretty poison
collecting sunshine glints
in the fresh summer jour.

A bottle of pretty poison
sitting on my shelf, surrounded
by the dust bunnies of my present.

A bottle of pretty poison
looking just as lovely as
my jar of everlasting life.

Less and less.

restless, restless
I begin my search.

breathless, breathless
I leave you behind.

reckless, reckless
it's all I want to be.

helpless, helpless
it's how I won't be caught.

classless, classless
I refuse to be defined.

fearless, fearless
you can't fucking scare me.

ruthless, ruthless
you don't deserve my heart.

godless, godless
I can only count on me.

homeless, homeless,
I begin my search.

Iridescence.

awash in an iridescent echo,
my former self can only wait,
held captive by the empty sound
of a love
..............long
.....................lost.

.

The never-ending, monotonous days of my life
are enough to break the strongest
and enough to define the weak.

It's 12:42 AM.
I'm done.

Wanderlust.

you're dipping your toes into inky oblivion
watching over your shoulders for the Past.
you find she isn't here today, and so,
you reluctantly
relax.

the darkest of waves are keeping you company
while you wait for your next Sign.
as if on cue, it dutifully arrives,
and you heave a beautiful
sigh.

the ship, it seems, is waiting for you,
and while you're a tad unsure,
the billowing sails tug at your heartstrings,
and you find yourself leaving the
shore.

there's just one problem, my dear friend;
you never washed off the ink.
And now, as you plan to leave your Past,
she follows you, hoping you'll
sink.


For Tomcat.

Old people may be on to something.

"I can feel it in my bones; there's a storm coming."

"Well, Grandma, I can feel it in my feet; I'm dead lonely."

Lace wisps.

Sometimes it's all one can do to restrain from visiting old haunts of the heart forevermore.

It can only do more harm than good.

Nod your heads in unison, little ones.