{for want of a title the plot was lost}

and into the black stained canvas we proceed for the second time only to have the sheets ripped by the jagged emotions that come from the motions that we wind the key so that we can complete and into the pitfall we rise above ourselves and look down on the places where we have come from and we always return to the places that pain us the most and from our holy mountaintop we drop like birds who have no longer given themselves the desire to flap their wings so we fall and sing as we whistle towards the abyss that our drifting has caused us and be we covered in glitter or gold littered with mud and left in the cold when the pride leaves the lion the lion still sighs and the cat burglars conspire into the deepest of their desires and steal from themselves the only things that they have left and regift it and deepen the pit in which the reaper sits and gleefully gets his musical fits from pulling on the heart strings and blowing through the pipes that were pure until the fires came from within and melted them in to a purely abstract lump of glass that still glistens in its beauty but can no longer function as it was intended and instead it went in to the cold room and condensated tears all over its form for it cuold no longer form the spaces where its eyes had been and that is when the fall began in colors of gold and brown of red and yellow and we all watched as the green died and the trees cried rainbows before they died before they could be reborn once the winter was gone, the winter that had not dawned and the printer of frozen calm would doze the cove into its arms and tinker till it opened small enough to let in light and call out to the ones who stood in stalls behind the doors that banks install and never let out just kept it all in and wanting for skin upon skin wrapped up in or atop of silk or cotton would leave but a trim of the fabric left enough to show you shame as you try to hide behind it and defend your findings before returning to sizing up the world around you while the world inflated its ego behind you and birthed billions of souls who never would find you or touch you or scuff you with coal charred by sinus and still it could blind us with the myriad of triumphs continually denied us and inserted right by us in bodies that would try us and lies that would like us as instead of the egg only shells would crack righteously still so invitingly calmly and brightened me staunchly and so white they seemed like the one prize that we still could not grow to reach and thus i inherited all of the omelets cheese broken and tastes like grease and lays out and still i preach to ears that could never see and yet they still try to read words i could never speak so pouring it out seemed better than spilling these thoughts onto your syringe plunging into decent reaping the coldest winds blowing it back again closing our eyes again rolling on backs again feeling the black come in opening fast to it painting it black again all for the sake of a shake caused by not a wind we see it is just another stained black canvas...

ONE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE