I go where all of space has no occupancy.
I live as the aftermath from what insistently is.
I make myself dine on the fumes of now’s passing.
I dive off the cliff of expectation with perfect form,
only to act out what passes as life-rendered experience.
These remnants of passage stand in rehearsed familiarity.
I invest in the greet of what experientially comes
and passively diminish what has recently gone before.
The music of my life has melodic hooks as if patterns.
I hum those movements in song to fill the gaps
where inspiration or self-love or cause-worthy lack.
Spontaneity would be a share if I had the self of permission.
I kill time with mired distraction and distant preoccupation.
Even if love comes my way, I am only a spectator’s view.
I want to be where molten has no option but to live richly.
I only feel fully qualified as a bystander for passersby.
Even dried flower seeds have determination’s secret in tow.
My canary sings muted songs in the mine of my monotony.
There is an inferno of joy buried within these ramblings.
I am the expansion from tranquility embracing dark needs.
My methods molt as meaning gives way to sumptuous light.
I report of isolation as if it has a paradoxical must or need.
My static makes for commentary but my isness has no say.
I now don’t mean for your passage by understanding
but I do live in my attempts on behalf of you, to convey.