Thursday, September 14, 2017


They fall for me when I am up
When I am a whirling rapturous thing
A dream they can cling to upon waking
A whispered sense in their depths that suggests
Magic is a thing
That could actually exist
An implied but unspoken promise
Dripping with what might be
Seductive candy coated insinuations
Of things to come

They yearn for something
That can't be pinned down
Or neatly stored in small keepsake boxes
A life outside of the chaste treasured totems
In scrapbooks and photo albums
They want to be brought to flame
For something that inverts their insides
And redeems them
Of their acceptance
Absolves them of settling
And of their resignation
Under the weight of could have beens

But a map is not a doorway
And I am not Atlas
So there will be times
When the world is to much to bear
And I won't have enough light
To ignite the stars
So when reality crashes in
In it's inevitable rising tide  
Carrying routine and disappointment
Rhythm and rote
Then even the afterimage will fade
And in the end they leave me
when I am down

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