The isolation is home
where voices are the fortress,
high and unequivocal.
The Eyes are witnesses
and to peruse their only object.
Hidden in recluse
borders the intermittent
a wont — to escape.
A soul fleeting against the wind
billowing graceless and out!
to return by eve
home and fortress.
It’s irrelevant when you do what you do.
I’m awake in the next room
writing, believing
all you are is who I want.
Words crashing in twilight,
in this calculating cold I continue to write,
the sirens in the quiet streets below your window
jarring my thoughts, irrelevant.
I will come as you go, and go as you leave.
Brushing against you going past
my mind is racing incomprehensible speeds
to figure out half your thoughts
all your recklessness.
The lights flicker
a wonder the moon has not set.
Maybe I loved you
when the stars were different from tonight
they still shine
but not the same light
now faded and wandering
from yesterday’s dreaming.
You were there but never captured
in pictures long forgotten
around the round surrounding me.
I should have known you then
when I knew you when
like I know you now
under different skies, calmer seas.
Birds have flown,
the moon a thousand nights risen.
I gazed openly at your face
a maze, a treasure found in rains long dried
without a map to never tell.
Strangle the Strange 