a crowded tomb, all-white with central nerve endings pulsating, these breathing messiah casualties, all lost in carl jung's psychoanalysis, philosophical train tracks headed back toward the no coast, and if i wanna spend the rest of time right here, a madman it does not make me, and if you wanna spend the rest of your life heartbroken, we can play out all the plot-twisting scenarios, but now when the woods became the stars, it was another story. i see tears from my past welling up in the shadows, basis for and result of the fact we ain't been talkin now. honestly, honesty iS our passion, and tragedy iS a greek tactic for writing. this iS not over, i will not let it come to that, and where our blood filled bathtubs, a certain edge was once taken off. now passing wristwatch cocncepts on long walks, but it ain't that van-lag caught up to me (me: the misunderstood jack-of-all-nothing), and it isn't that online confessionals feel any better now than they did then, but a hidden message was once found in the cave next to a dead monk, so when i stop listening, hit repeat.
the story goes like this:
we were all dressed in burning leaves, the concrete had swelled up and exploded as river rocks do under intense heat on no notice, and we knew of the thorns guarding the outside of the skunk cabbage, but we became a night, that night, once and for all, until we became instead only this conversation piece, a freight filled with dirty coal and a lonesome bum, there iS no me in collective, or consciousness. and all pathways lead home, so just so we know, i'll be there and you will to, there's no was that can trump this iS.