Hold down the dawn,
I’m going back,
I’ve lost my escape,
I’ve forgotten to end my odds,
Hold back the sunrise,
I haven’t realized the elevated senses,
I’ve scattered things idle,
I’ve loved loose;
Found myself a million miles away,
Touching fingers against pink mist,
Hovering above the horizon,
Wearing nothing but sunlight,
Which disappears as I drift further.
And all I know, all I learnt
Is what I remember;
The last look, the weary world, and the blinding noise.
And I couldn’t say too much because no one could hear. I am unfinished.
But off I go,
I bow my head before the starry sky,
Before the dusky dawn.
And disappear into the howling infinity, in floundering views and wild blue…
He gawked at the world’s obvious history…. Something revolutionary, something vintage, something Incan too…. And he came to realize that there is time to come.
There are days away from the spoils of his own history, which involve too many things that he couldn’t fix or make better… And he thought that he was fine, that he was wasting living by rambling thru only what was true.
So he cultivated fields of dreams and fantasies whereat to unwind, to undo his belt, recline in his car, forget about his creations, and breathe…. It was in the open road. Still. Quiet. Tranquil…. Eternity sold for a dense pause in the woody clarity of a lonesome road.
In many ways, he begin to share his story in a language that is currently silent…. It is only a starlit whisper…. And so when people would call him, he would begin to pace the asphalt until the soles of his shoes were worn down…. He would promise a return to himself, a rest and release…. But then he would leave.
Then a day came, when he hiked thru his uncertainty of future and his disdain of past…. It wasn’t anything…. But he was someplace, and he didn’t hate to be there… It wasn’t the road or his home…. But it was a middle…. A mawkish wetness that overcame his body, and it freed his brain from a contemplation stretched forevermore….
But that was a dream, a death that was still in a passage that he was yet to undergo…. Consequently, he asked if this was it, in the end do we have to make peace with chaos… Accept meaning with a gun at the back of the head…. No God to answer, but he recognized that today or tomorrow can only be okay, until he changes… And he would have to be good one day at a time, and he would have to be good every day.
Once, you ran and again you followed what you left.
It’s your routine to look back,
To whistle moments that never happened,
That you consistently wished and hoped may happen,
But they never did and they never could,
Because the time in which they may have happened is gone.
And you never did what you dreamed you wanted to do.
This time, is only good for breathing.
You can’t abscond nothingness,
Every page you turned, every decision you rued, has tapered into a temple.
Take your regrets in a hydraulic embrace,
That clings and lingers onto your body in wounds and in scars,
Which possibly explains the shadows and meadows of your indecisiveness.
Your past explains your present,
And this is your problem—you weaved your past wrongly.
You need to be so much closer to the seasons,
Route your feet onto the highway,
Raise your chest, and wave your hands like woozy handles,
Wind down on the starry goodbye, gaze at the final jump.
So now, go to your desire. Be before the dawn.
Alright, you caught yourself burnt amid the dark—- And life didn’t promise anything…
The floods of shouts teethed at your chest—right when you were hiding behind your hair— and calling out the depictions of daylight in a barred dimness.
On a dark night, you rose tumbling at the figures of fame and the darkness crashed screaming—in mountainous treasures that way you tread— and wouldn’t be caught gleaming.
You dreamt of an escape—always the same—-cruising your body—wrapped in the coastal breeze—-running, running—-onward the balconies and laughing.
With white lightning and thunderous applause—receiving highly the summer daze–and you said you never wanted to be caught.
But that was just a persuasion from the fantasies that unwind today on the static of your electric buzz—the one that keeps hot your lushly lit love for the stage—in all the great phases that ravel onto new time, and habits—pride that couldn’t commit to your craze.
Then one day, you’ll bend backward in angelic clothes, ball your game to the top—-doe-eyeing heaven—while the hydrangeas glisten in gardens—closing your eyes and lulling you.
Rocking off the toppled floors, slowing down only for who could handle you—inflate you with hopes and answers—suntan, tie-dye short dress, hissing your remains—covering the sparkle in seams.
Nothing lasts forever——-nothing really matters—-nobody is infallible—-nobody indispensable—and that much you knew and more….
Fabric grips the grinning body,
Sky soars above loosely,
Mind races towards another mind, in trials to collect, to adhere, and to be together.
Waves echo in weakening milieus,
Time fades into the ground,
Feet sink into the closing lip of memory’s kiss.
Life imitates harm.
Smiles collide, cries collapse in a menagerie of no movement
I keep I keep I keep. I keep still.
Sometimes, you just have to move.
Even if it frizzes your hair
If it frazzles your body,
But it excites your soul,
And it fizzes your hours,
It beats your exasperation into cheers,
And you are freed into polished arms while your feet sweep the creaky wood.
Then you laugh, amid and atop the dance of bright lights.
That’s just what you do.
Dark eyes muffled underneath scarfs notwithstanding,
The shades of gloom blackening cherub heads and new aged nests
Of people that trip side terrapins towards the subterranean pacific,
Wearing trenches to turn the tides and the oceanic waves,
Into screwy oily brinks of passageways, that could make them glorious ready.
A generation of relentless greed, degenerate dreams, cabling the system that starves starkness bare.
In thru ballrooms and wearing tourniquets, and fire as uniforms, marching the matriarchy
Toward the storm of our apocalyptic magnificence that disappears and withers and wilts,
In its beginning, without a prophecy of doom, but a truth that lives its lies in growing shadows,
In the cover of hearts, and tones of checked ways, at the meridians of standard understanding,
And the final rusty dwindling, waning, the pacing of hell in eternal charts carpeting the rooms
Bleakly furnished by skeletons, and artfully settled on thrones made of barbwire that burned off on the run,
At the lush rush of race that regimented its introduction in centuries that seconds passed.
And the cruelty that subsequently surpassed, in the hysterical history of ugly neediness,
And dependence in passions plagued by punishment.