Friday, September 17, 2004

January 8

a love song to life, sung in some
tongue foreign to me
though the words are unintelligible
the melody finds a home in my brain
and takes the chance to settle in
making hundreds of others its roommates

it's a late night, the weather ever changing,
and I share my haunted thoughts
with people warm and distant like the sun.
they are familiar, friendly, constant,
but to know them closely
would probably char my outsides.
that may not be such a bad idea.

* * *
lonely she sits having staring contests
with her own reflection
and tonight she's more alone than ever
epiphanies far behind here
nothing is novel anymore
everything aging like an epic king
while she fades away
some artist's illustration
in someone else's story

and on the other side of the wall
he stands staring at the city
and the lights indicating signs of life
while he's on the inside
trying to get out
of solitary confinement
society's prison
his private torture chamber

we're all just dying on the inside

* * *
what hope is there for the human race
other than our own ingenuity
the strength to pull the bootstraps
are there dreams of glory
is there hope of evening finally falling
something to cover our immortal mortality
everyone else is close like the stars
and intimate like strangers

and we're all just dying
we're all just falling
we're all just bleeding
we're all just dancing and weeping and laughing
we're all just going crazy on the inside
and somewhere is our only hope


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