Through a fragile soul I have found my reasoning's not the same, nor my knowing's consequential. Years of timeless commitment and the tiring struggle of companionship have died.
Low cries of insecurity cling to me from facades of cemented security and the peace of known abilities. Listen and you may hear the cry of a misplaced child fading into the darkness that surrounds him.
Procreation is the only tangible evidence of lives lived, turning the innocent into the same entities that spawned them. Through basic frailties discontentment is evidenced as the smog of rationalism that I afford myself.
The current of life must contain a relevant piece of colloquialism. What tenderness can one find besides those that surface in the face of adversity; when any word, no matter how trivial or irrelevant, is clutched to ‑ as a spinster to her aging lithograph.
Copyright PsychopeteÓ 2003
