Dec 14, 2005

Stuck in a cycle of waking up,

morning comes,
shining from a lamp that sparks awareness,
the black of sleep inspired,
candled by a 110 watt bulb.

Burning for no one in particular,
yet powered by some unseen force.

Possibly the conspiracy wants it to shine,
maybe its a fluke and power should have been shut off a long time ago.

Maybe I turned the light on,
passing out irregularly into the closet,
grasping the curtain rod like a gymnast on the uneven bars.

A perfect man in every way
haunted by dreams of lost opportunity,
resigned to a fate of, possibly, second best.

The rest outshined him,
reminded of times where he became the symbol,
the times long lost where dreams outshone reality.

Catching our thoughts up in a simplistic place,
a face of silence and acceptance in the midst of chaos,
a hopeless quagmire of faded memories.