hot eyes

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,

written,

as is my apparent forte.


I attempted to speak

in a way less befitting

to my cyclical cynicism.


With hope,

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.


My assumptions

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.

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