Fortunate memory in a lackluster plaster cast

Founded on desire and plagued by a bad case of the wandering eye

What is it that fears being bested more than hope?

I sometimes wonder what you're doing now

Do you find yourself alone on your throne whiling away the days with hollow
thoughts about hollow promises you made on hallowed days?

Or is that just me?

I think it's mine to take with me

I still can't kick the thought of your approval meaning so much to me

And realizing that it still does

I sit alone in my encyclopedia of new ways to be distracted

And pontificate

Arrogance gives way to pathos and finally, to platitudes

I am tangentially aware of the life that encircles me and seems to exist in
spite of me

I'm in a leg trap of an epiphany

I find that I'm, waiting for the first tangible metaphor to sweep me in its
embrace and spit me into the logic stream

Where I'll inevitably find that I'm one of a kind and lonely is not just a
word, but a way of life

Is it despair that guides a poet's hand or is his hand the instrument of his
despair?

Fairness to the band, though - the music's got my toe tapping

Furthermore, I eschew the darkness and use sun block on the light

I'll find my undoing on the moors

Didn't Heathcliffe say that?



Copyright: Brian Pellerino 2004