Writer’s Block

The cadence of perpetual chaos
 The improper subtleties
 They hide under rocks, but the rocks lift slightly
 Anyone can see they've been moved
 Look into the kaleidoscope and pretend you don't care
 There's a disturbance in the distance
 Only dishonesty can deny its existence

Who are we
 Why are we here
 To fight the fates whose meddling fingers press on taut piano strings
 The low notes are cables
 Unbreakable leaders of the countless hope deprived battalions
 Who march in time with empty promise and predictable faith
 In what they chose to believe
 Sages survive onslaught
 Their folly forgiven
 Their wisdom unprejudiced

The night air is cold, but your hands are warm
 My fingers send chills up your back
 I feel you tense against me
 And wanting
 But hesitate despite the signs
 So do you
 Where is the line between love and lust
 Or is it illusion
 Pandering excuses for our shortcomings
 It feels right
 Hushed questioning
 A lone finger against your lips
 A sweet kiss goodnight
 The wetness from your lips on mine feels cool in the breeze
 It's not for long
 The walk home is long
 Steps are small and slow
 Savoring the last feeling while reflections highlight the bandied surface
 Sincere are lost whispers in the dark
 Revolving around a modicum of truths and lies created by unknown mystics

The wait is bearable but nervy
 Feeling the blood rushing through your veins and arteries
 Electricity tingles on your skin
 Hear your heart and lungs industrial resonance
 Hold your breath and search for life
 Stare into the bright lights, close your eyes, and see the signs of life swim in the matrix
 Another world and another life
 Come and gone before our eyes 
Remembered until forever forgotten
 But just as significant
 The lines hang over us supported by possibility
 But it's all an illusion
 There are no for sures
 Only history
 And hope

We all write our own stories
 We all close the book and leave pages unseen
 We all edit the scenes despite cruel empiricism
 But we all can't write happy endings
 Only wish to
 Because stories develop along their own lines
 Or times wasted on trying to fix what is not broken
 And it's forgettable
 And meaningless

I stand by the door looking for headlights in the mist and find peace every time yet only when I'm blinded

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