There is nothing more to this moment than me in this chair
Listening to music in a different language
Saturated by distant memories of golden and disappearing sunsets
There is nothing less to this moment than this.
The fresh blood of these memories sneaking out between coagulated scars.
Reminders that wounds still ache
And pain still feeds off vulnerability.
There is nothing more to this artificial light that hangs heavy in even eggshell color.
The flower of this evening has already bloomed and crumpled upon itself,
Shivering through furrows of thin, pastel skin
Wrapping its cold heart inside the interminable bosom of silk layers
That tear tragically with a weak stroke by a clumsy finger.
Though it is late and
I have nothing more to give to this moment than my tired fingers,
My perception of time
Continually beats against my will to create.
Impassioned protests oppose the thirst for production
Refusing to allow satiation in full…
Instead there is a force
Who wishes to wrinkle me like the weak flower
And crush my bones as if crisp stems of pale green.
It fiddles with my eyesight
And deviously paints the lids with a lead lacquered brush.
I grow ponderous with each tap of the finger
Though simultaneously fulfilled in obstinate victory.
I may fall to the sleep in luxurious languor
But will recount some woes before settling for the moonless scene.