Looking In with Outside Eyes

I look at the faces of those I have yet to meet…

and, with their sheltered glance back.

100_1215I wonder what it is they see.

Solitary in this chilled climate.

My greeting of gratitude have loss their appeal.

The slow melt of morning’s snow.

These ‘one size’ fits all deceits…are all mine.

Looking in with outside eyes.

I have no time for a complacent mind.

a little bit Country

The lack of quiet on the inside matches…

the abundance of stillness outside.

A distance of which is…long as, an accountability of the past.

I have tried the ebony asphalt of the city street.

Searched for calm in the downward glance…of a stranger’s eye.

In the empty storefronts, I could rent restraint…

I could not buy.

With all the urban decor,

it had been easy to see…

I will always be country on the inside.

Avoiding the Others

Stretches of barren road with others in the way.

Quite specific moments where I have no cotton candy words to say.

Instinctively defensive, I hold the uphill battle to inner peace…aside.

With the random chances of solitude…I keep my eyes wide open.

The ‘others’ and promise of vision…need not collide.

I cannot uphold a symbol or sign.

Indications for…all the ‘others’ need not apply.

It is not in my nature to carry a grudge hand or fist.

Step over slippery step.

However, I am obstinate when calm wishes to confide.

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Living as a Junkyard Car

So horrible at communication.

This I know.

Yet, I found it the safest way to go.

The trappings of loving another…

Nothing but a graying destiny for a languishing mind.

My state of hibernation…

A junkyard car.

Scrap metal missing banner days.

Scratched, dented and out of gas.

Living in the accident of someone last gaspimageedit_86_2660408772.

My only sense of security…

A junkyard dog ambivalent to my past.

On flat tires I take no prisoners.

Propped up on cinder-blocks.

There are no chance for encounters.

Alone by Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe/ Alone