i want to be light as a feather,
yes, floating and floating
over seas and beaches,
past sails and boats
the sun and the sea,
standing, watching,
glistening, staring
fluttering slowly
past children and birds,
yes, my destination unknown
thrown and carried throughout
streets, cities, gutters,
mountains, highways,
the gust of movement
letting go of everything
and always free
some let me be, some might
stick me in their hair
for beauty
where beauty is kept
but it is movement,
nonetheless,
and time goes
on.

centuries (older)

yes, i have written for the centuries,
their eyes so enclosed,
i have seen, their bodies warp
in unending fashion
that coil promoting
those blackened stars
their beams fuzzy
in the absence.
writing for all times,
a lonely drawl
sickeningly ironic
a very convenient
image to prove.
a hallucination
to which had
no barrier.
i have drunken the poison,
yes, 'the devil doth offer'd'
he has sat with his proposition
along porcelain tile
leather nests
spinning on their axis
with a certain inquisition,
a beckoning, 'broken or filled,
broken or filled!'
a time passes
everything
disappears
transience ensues
a helplessness
inevitable.