I had a dream, a vision where
I looked from out the bus stop,
saw this world as candle's flame, a snapshot
glamour; all those tears.
I can improve on these--
the soft-shelled nights and half-felt days...

This tin wherein I store the world's
collective sighs is overflowing--
levies torn asunder by the mounting wash,
silt in roadway cracks. We
built this world, they say.
We built these stones and all
that home.

What crime that all
gives way to starstuff,
tides of light recede from
nuzzling the earth.

This test of time precedes on
those with faith, the will to see
beyond this spinning stone, and
bones that grind away to days unlived.
So funny, now
to think of all come down, the
dampened bookshelves holding up
what's left of walls meant then for grace.

Heaven Help the Candlestick

Drifting, limbo style, and not the kind with the really low pole.

Emotion isn't subject to the laws of gravity here. What once as up is down, and down extends outwards from the center.

I'm not upset, but I am angry. Mostly at the being here.
I'm not sad, but I am lonely. Mostly for the being here.

And things would be eminently easier if the outside world, representing the future along with all its abundant potential, ceased to swirl about, but I can't be the one to end that.

Days pass in the blink of an eye, and then I work to support the passing of days.