my hands don’t tremble like they used to
back when I lacked most my follow-through
morality trailed my steps
like a hungry hound.
wealth abounded but I lacked tenacity
and now the darkness,
with its empty sprawling canvass
seems to draw me
towards an intangible truth I always
seem to forget:
we die little deaths.
each of us, stealing empty gasps while we
through our daily scenes,
so focused on the sobering
regularity of routine,
passion percolated down into coffee grounds
sure, these fluorescent lights aren’t weak
i still cant shake the dream of sleep,
of something just outside my view.
we wade through
these days of smoke
and mire. the somber cyclicality
of our early weekday risings
and our faded weekend reveries
monotony never made much sense to me
was always such a
playful afternoon pastime.
i’ve refused to let my circumstances define me,
yet i’m blinded
by the reminders of my solipsistic desires
lost in a loop of misremembering
and shrouded longings. i’ve distanced the past,
but my future is still fading into the margins