we're always riding the train,
she and i
and we get so surprised when the line takes us
the same goddamn way again

and the impersonal greetings
and strange stress
such imperial dining for
the utterly bored

this is not a well-framed narrative
stories fall apart
like the houses near mine
and the gutter on the apartment
or the boiling rage of
what today became

true pain is hidden behind memorabilia
morose and melancholy
all of it

your lover's touch
your lover's kiss
the sound
of a bottle breaking over the rocks
near the quarry
and the radiating scent of murder steaming
from his whiskey-dipped lips

of course
for this is the season
of forgiveness
oh, to cause the sensation of still feeling
this is the dismissal we're still dealing

i look outside
the birds are dead
and so are you, so yellow and red
the fellow bled out in a more brilliant color
well, i was the first
but then there was another

No one can answer another if the question is a definition for one'��s own pain, or the despairing scope of it. One could provide words, if only as an imperfect mirror --in replacement for the cruel insufficiency of our lives...or the unpredictability of our varying susceptibilities to seemingly ordinary events that, more often than not, sweep us onward, whether for eventual good or inevitable ill.

Go on we must, if only for ourselves, if only for the seeking or the growing, most of all.

Thanks for sharing, PP. Always a pleasure to read your work.

great piece,

Nicely done p_p

(((((Colin))))