Monday, March 31, 2014

Unfinished Bridge

I decide to relentlessly examine the voices which hold me back.
A powerful thaw is released in the clueless winter.
My depression is a simple ditty that has been played many times.
My consciousness is a groove that sticks to Nothingness.
My voice recalls the anger but this time with authority.
The unbearable afternoon sparkles between a raindrop and a candle.
Belongings, from fingernail to bicycle pedal, are given up.

I'm trying to sell this gingerbread house
to the man locked inside the gingerbread man's head.
He runs so far only to cross a river that is not on the map.
He is shaped by a cutter that is not in the alphabet.
He has sworn an oath that this will be the last time,
but he cannot get used to something old and something new.

I calm my mind, broken and shattered, somewhere on the desolate,
new freeway road where I stretch out and forgive myself.
Far off in the distance, I see the unfinished bridge.
My drink is balanced on a train descending into Nothingness.
Soon I will be free of these voices with little left save my dining car
and a conductor.
He punches the tickets as the train climbs out again into Being.
The canyon is flashing by outside my dining car.
Soon I will walk back to my old seat if time permits,
if time is even a passenger in this new drink.

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