My life is incomplete, a work in the making, yet I’m constantly trying to define it, to climb it, from one moment carved out of the next, all running together in painted daisy chains, linked by the common thread of my undoing, the fastening holding my little scrap of modesty together around my exposed, lies that I’ve told myself to create a through narrative out of disorientated trinkets, leftovers from a castle by the sea that was carried out by the changing tides, beyond the horizon into your dreamscape, or is it mine own lattice braided subconscious that ensnares us both thus, a firefly in the spiderweb dancing in the moonless night, how much time is left when everything is measured in 2/4 heartbeats that sync up with the  bobbing of the fishing line tying my last little hope to the hook set to catch the big one, the all knowing, give me transcendence or give me trivial mind games set to loosen my days from the framework, binding me to simple solutions and unending questions, my own ruin written in my unexpressed salvation.


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