A pot of fresh death on the counter.
A new week's growth on my neck and chin.
That dark ratty stuff above my lip.
A slow tango to something spirited on the radio.
You're not alive, you're just passing the time.
Fingers curled around your eyes.
Another unlit slim marking the anniversary of another forgotten thought.
A neverending swirl of to-do's left on the fridge.
And that same hypocrit smirk.
Do you even remember what it was like to fake it?
Does it matter? Least you're smiling as you fade into the dawn.
Poets gone wild, prose gone vampiric.
Another day wasted.
Another day alone.
But if I wasn't so busy wasting my time, I'd just be wasting my time.
Coffee with my shadow
dinner with my figments
breakfast with a stranger from the mirror.
Nothing to write home about.
Nothing to mark with a fresh pink scar.
But the calander is full with day's just like it.
Set game, and match.
Like the one I threw on the kerosine to put out the dark.
In another day, in another life.
In another.
Within another.
There is nothing but everything. Anything?
Spark of the divine?
Lit the now crisp flambe'd afterbirth of the new world.
Brave and terrible, and so quietly empty.
