I tire because I am endlessly, or waking, dream
I’ve laboured to no end in the day and nightly tripped
Through doors whether in and out with nothing scripted,
Nothing tasted, a greater thing than gravity. Early minutes’ quiet’s gleaned
From what I see as patterns reckon ends bit off before
They leave the fingertips. Salutations to the daylight from the darkness
Knowing light my only threat and saviour cannot be denied; I seek no rest
But simply wave my rights before I hit the bathroom floor.
Another round of ritual in the matins and by the time I see the streets
My spirits rise to the invasion, papers purchased and there
I am while no one hears me enter. My exit’ll not be noted as no one’s left
Who remembers where I stood so tall before it all–the cleft
Between the morning after and the afternoon before–the air,
The pavement, strokes of something like a sidewalk drawing noted
That I arrived before the elect but somehow never voted.
Devoted, yes, of course, I bear the scars that echo in my ear—
Thunder’s never altogether gone—
just as lyrics never cease, reprise to yet another song.
The stride is altered, yes, but never far from goals
I’ve set, and always from the “A” to the inevitable “B” the line
Is straight. It flows, it never fades. Consistency is there
And I am bound to find that certain place I’ve never really cared
To picture in my mind; the conspicuous Gate lies beyond the mines
And subtle traps I’ve laid, extensions of the singular;
Ignorance of pleasures life so egregiously proffers,
Simplicity of purpose wreathed in fine collective offers,
Boxed for public viewing, profits veiled within the insular.
The rock, itself, sees through all these aye’s
And knows its nay’s beyond the public gaze, disguised.