chicory

Washed Out

Beneath this pale day’s sun
And the advent garde disengagement
I was never truly capable of catching
Beyond the shriek of temporal clamor and
Failure to hold it all together,

It’s too fragile,

To hide away and watch that sinking feeling
That this cancerous condition leaves me lacking,
Trickle down with each hair that abandons-- dies
Every time I grow a little older than the time
I was only a puffy-faced moment in the back of a room.

And everything is so far above my head
That if I peer down I’d see nothing at all
But the half of what I use to be and the rest
Of what remains afar and at bay,
Always a second ahead of every sigh,

So that there isn’t the strength to look,

Yet I can’t close my ungood eyes,
Or stop and strip down –bare it all–
To forget these dejected falsities
And throbbing maladies these…
Dead-end dreams.

I’d better soon learn to forget
And instead shoulder the yoke of all those years
That were there long before the take-over,
The loss of feeling, of night-time and
Moonlight.

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