poem

faded rediscriptions of everything that was and isn't
gonna stick around long enough to be there again
and you want to talk about your disposition, your this-is-how-i'm-feeling
the words grind themeselves to a gigantic halt on
boulevards of prognosis, waves of disturbing principles
or imposed legislature crumbling, tumbling, falling
getting up again and not knowing the why or how or the whatever
that holds you back, kicking and screaming. and i miss it all
i miss the window breezes(collections of old and new stacked up to fall over, pile on pile and it keeps going it keeps going it keeps going), piles of dirty motherfuckers
slopping around solemnly, starving for the next sip of amber
and while the pieces never fell correctly, they fell none-the-less
into a concise enough pattern that you never felt too lonely
near the end, until it was the end. until it was just a phone call
that you never heard again