"Isn't it strange
we move our lives for another day,
like skipping a beat..."
I suppose in the laundry list
of my convocations of the past,
a relationship was always
something I thought would last
Forever. Like the tide
that comes in and out
in some fairy tale
island shore,
my interest is always piqued
by those that have come before
and succeeded. My passion,
my idealism, my neologistic
search for something unique;
as if love was my own creation,
my satisfaction, my abomination,
like Frankenstein and his creature's
horrific transformation
from reason to madness
to reasonable destruction
in the face of disturbed madness
by those deemed un-mad
diagnosing him un-sane.
But a flower is a flower
which are petals to be plucked
and played the old game with:
He loves her, she loves him not,
and there we are struck
with an inability to see
the forest for the trees,
to believe in nothing
but the happiness,
to hear bees buzzing
amongst the tall grass
and lean back and laugh
at all the wild inequity
of this most devastating life.
To grasp at dandelion seeds
thrown wildly into the air
by a passionate breeze
and let them fall wherever
they might, as if life had a plan
of its own and you were just a part of it
this whole time, just a weak-kneed
supper attendant seeking
beauty in each fresh course
brought before you, and, testing
your tongue, find little difference
between dessert and the main
and trusting your taste-buds
has become a just a game
because everything up till now
felt like a dream
and if this is real life
then what happened
in the past eighteen months
that made me fall asleep?
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