The frame never fits but it will wholly consume,
the sun, shadows and the abhorrent vacuum,
feeding the demons in our head, mind and soul,
the frame and scheming destiny – always in control.
Peering through the haze, dense and cold,
seeking the peddler and his dreams of gold,
needled arms grasp, reach and fail,
only what we never need are ever up for sale.
Ensconced in life’s vagaries, like ebony among ivory keys,
she arrived like the summer sun to my boiling seas,
dulling the serrated edges of hate and pain,
to seat me in this sick cycle carousel- it begins again.
The warmth of this unholy cloister of self is a plague,
only non-believers seem to follow the prophets of our age;
there is some comfort as we head to our next shallow breath,
only the dying are truly unafraid of death.
