You are water & I am sand

You are steam & I’m a wrinkle

You are ice & I am butter

You’re the wind against my shutter

I am silver & you are gold

I have secrets & you’ve been told

I am cracked & you the glue

You’re a path of only two

I was the student when you were the teacher

Now I’m the professor & you the apt pupil




Given my misanthropic ways & my circumscribed days…being sickly hasn’t really been that bad.

The only times I’m lonely & my soul weeps for escape…are the times I look back regretfully at my hale & hearty days.

Moving on is an illusion; it’s carrying on but it’s carrying weight…I sit dazzled at those that are able at all to still perambulate.

On these “soul weepy” days & I feel the bars of my cage…I’m a fucking coward for still hanging around.

When the floor show is over & you can no longer dance…one should know it’s past time to exit the stage.

But then a bird sings & I look through the glass at my side…that free flitting chanteuse becomes my flame’s point of pride.