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It's how the filters tumble randomly;
at times even rapidly, like the days
when cats could balance chocolates
on their knees. To be alone is your
goal. Mentally especially, when the
physical world suggests impossibilities.
It's how the fan blades simplify society's
impersonation of culture. The level of
tension becomes a rusted needle in
the pilgrim's graveyard arm to please
a journey's end. And you want to be
alone.

(So) your quest is set to escape
humanity's labyrinth. The beauty of
isolation is calling you by name and other
names friend-like. What ails through
generosity's vicious circle roots selectively
in between consequences. It's how the
potential best of lovers suit themselves
transparently; refuse ritual filth and co-
dependency. To live until bedtime where
the chant of pretend people can melt you
into slumber. Snuggling with your blanket,
looking at the stars you want to be alone
but in the playground too. With the
potential best of lovers you are alone, at
the swings, resting your head against the
pendulum.

It's how a thin cup's clay returns your
kiss. So much warmth, as relevant as
any set of fingers run through your curls.
Welcome the chill wind of a poet's subtle
breath. Value each as if the last; as if a
poet's love had existed for you. For I
say to you I've missed that fate and
continue in awe of what chances prevail.
Alone I lie, generations gliding passed a
pink youth to grey age. They're fading
one by one, as I've embraced the best
of lovers. It's how photographs grow
old while you remain the same. It's
how a life true ly ends when living fails
appreciation.