Tell me that it takes the clock’s hands.
Tell me that it needs days to grow.
Pouring decaying thoughts to flowers as they morph into weeds,
could it bring to life what was said to not begin?
And I think I might have failed as I reached,
but a stray sway of mind sent my heart reeling.
Separated from reality in the synecdoche of imagination,
skyscrapers rise taller to be the walls of isolation,
since I knew I stumbled when I struggled with my throat
and out came phrases that should have stayed voiceless.
Is it you I see?
Is it you I place into nonexistent photographs?
Am I losing time sorting through imagery
when the actors have stormed off the stage?
Is it you or is it a passing phantom?
Have I gone to replace in order to repeat?
Struck silent in lessons that were never connected to life,
yet the blurring dimension of fiction spills over from its art,
damning ourselves to parallels that ever will describe shortcomings.
Tearing through notebooks,
digging through the pages,
mining the handwriting dry for relief,
and I see us standing there in between the curving pen lines
where Klimt laid us down in golden robes,
and it was sworn to be elegance.
Was he wondering about what he saw and did he know when it’d arrive?
The most empty hope hangs itself on a wire hoping for response,
but the air runs thin higher up in the atmosphere of sinking dreams.
Did he doll us up in grace?
Did he know what he had made?
Or am I picturing you again where we never could begin?
Ours is a history of mistrust.
Ours is the dried ink rubbed off on a wrist.
Washed dry at the end of a night.
It may not have ever been there.
( ❤ Mitch)