What I Seem To Be

I am lonely as an old widow’s stale taste of bittersweet memories of her late husband. I am eerie as a wilted sunflower stuck in the shroud of shadows between hundred year old buildings. I am the moss on ancient trees dying to be loved. I am the vines that tangled your heart in knots. I am a sailboat stuck on a floating pile of trash, unnoticed except by the artificial stare of satellites. I am everything wanting nothing; I am nothing wanting everything. I am a dirty child strapped to a rusty railroad with the gleam of death’s light stuck in my innocent, fragile eyes. I am the look of instinctual fear. I am. I am. I know I am many things, but a fool is not one. A fool is one who plays the hearts of many, not just one unfortunate soul. I believe I have died and my transparent soul is festooned across the fucking heavens. I am lost, lost, lost at long last, forever deathly afraid of the future, and dreading the past. But, my unforgivable heart say otherwise, and, fills my vacant mind with images and light and love and vagaries as if to do so would distract me from the hell that is living life. The end is near, and I have no fear; dear, dear, dear . . . these trivial words have taught me nothing.

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