Breakfast (Written May Fourth Two-Thousand-Nine)

So its over
and the tears are shed
stored in ink well
placed down hollow quill
the end

The whispers manifest
a destiny to contemplate
fate
fake emotion
unrealistic projection
a project in confidence
obsession enameled
broken incessant ache
enamored

[But for this warm beating
this blood has been left for bleeding

but for this special place
behind a wall now hidden

(tread lightly
game has no consequence
the trip is part of the act
clap at the expert dribbler)

but for this love
unspoken
unwritten
it’s over and passed

but for this life
the future
the end

but for this panic
grip as slipping
battered hands
for dear life

(wounds only observed
when placed for jest
found rest—
arrest this human
dance in humor)]

and these random letters
designed to decieve
only mind
and capture heart
just a part between A and Z
one by one
they sing out loud
like white water
or some peacock plume
dried out
fallen and rotten

so what high plane
does this song bring
while tearing down
spiraling
for amusement
some future scene
a city green?

where no other place
as close as this
as sure as now
muddle through somehow
and finish well

for

just one letter
put together
meaning
goes without saying
yet not resisted
to tell