Why toil in midnight gardens of regret
like southbound swallows to the warmth
is to overthrow increase,
a state of
it's one accomplishment....shipwrecked on
an over passed isle of neglect,
surrounded by sleep.
A mountain top to nowhere is
it's only destiny,
and misguided treasures that elude.
Conquering the summit's wicked intent
is to rewrite 10,000 rainy nights
into a magnum opus; ending
getting the better of
And forgetting bygone days of slumber
is to observe
the empty corridors
of dark winter; finding
from one place to the other.
Memory wipe; termination exhale. Lingering
the past is in memorial, it's dominion
unseated; the mechanical man repaired.
Walking toward the sun in a show of protest,
to a place where time crash-lands
to a certain standstill;
and hopelessness withers into
it's business is so lovely, keeping body and soul together; less complex.