Live
Sighing at originality raped,
Wondering if dreams will ever be realized -
Probing, pursuing
That day
When you can even begin to touch your thoughts.
The razors, the roses - Baby steps, pitiful
As much use as your cotton shield
thumb and teddy bear.
Less.
That at least brought a sense of security.
Your monument to sheared memory
That passes to the imaginary, borders on the unreal.
As if overlooked history and forgotten ideals
(Or even your existential angst)
Could be translated into pictorial
(enduring)
cement.
Fearing what is impossible to know
Panicked thinking that we may become
All we pretend to be.
Startlingly
Unable to seal away with wax and pain
such insincerities.
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