still

things--
images, thoughts, and pursuits
all wanting to be expressed.
None will be subverted,
none ignored.

Again. Fated.
Doomed to this,
for this to repeat--
like history.

Words fail,
the mind fails --can't function,
the soul only knows
Thoughts without form
too far apart to grasp.
-------
As a disclaimer - that isn't poetry...
-------
So wait, you don't want to leave? Don't want to try, to suffer, to know?

Then let's stay here, under dim lights from grey skies. Here, we'll remember how to draw flame-letters on napkins, how to eat tiramisu, how to drink mint tea, and why cinnamon rolls need vanilla pudding. We'll walk to the BP and we'll get taxis into town and we'll take trains to the city and we'll visit Italy once a week - forever. We'll get mediocre grades and live mediocre lives, and just be mediocre lights - finding the same fruit over and over and over again.

Sure. We can stay here - where a warm sun doesn't shines, where dreams dance daily with death, where things never end and shadows never stretch, and the same day happens for an eternity.

But it's still a problem.

Poetry, prose, bad naratvites and metanaratives, worse descriptions and dialogues -- all cut-pieced together to make a boring conglomeration of all the things no one says.

We'll forget...
don't worry. we will.
Hoenstly.
We...you...I will--
will forget; have to forget; can't forget...
-------
Again, don't worry - none of this is poetry.
-------
Oh God, what am I going to do? A purpose, a reason, some explanation to why things are what they are? You had better have--

I'm done. In so many, I'm done. Throwing in the towel, letting the pieces of shattered truths fall, sinking into the canal where I have been pushed.

There aren't words that could show or symbols that would mean or an answer that would seem fitting or fair. That's the way these things go.

So I'll just exist. If that works, I'll be okay. If it doesn't - God help me.

-RK