A kind breeze strokes my back.
It lassoos around my shoulders
and rubs my temples.
My eyes are hot
and try to escape my brain.
A creature jostles in the blackness behind them.
I amble for a slim-filter
and consider where in the room
even a crumb of herb may be
as I pile tobacco
between FSC certified rolling paper.
I’ve thrown out words,
as is my apparent forte.
I attempted to speak
in a way less befitting
to my cyclical cynicism.
with esoteric allusion,
with some chase after meaning.
Self-created meaning, of course.
Symbology and semiotics
are all very well,
but personal experience
is the only interpretative tool
with some subjective objectivity.
Sing the song of the body!
To remind of the reason it was placed there.
I don’t know if I’m helping,
but I refuse to assume otherwise.
have been getting the better of me.
Especially assuming pain,
emotions for myself.
I have siphoned parts of lives to ease pain.
But only the pained can choose to ease their own pain.
I can only support that easing.
What cannot be done, I will volunteer for.
But I cannot be other than what I be.
I have a mouth, but I do not wish to scream.
My hot eyes have gained no ground.
The currents in this pink walnut
crackle through broken connections.
My words are seen, yet still meaningless.