And all the things they don't create.
Clocks turn their backs toward empty space.
I am waiting
In the pit of the lion's den.
Golden manes of imperfect memory,
Shedding all over me—
Dammit, I was going to wear this tie.
Will I ever meet your walls?
Do they shake hands or is it just awkward?
Either way I'll bet they're green and smiling.
Wallpapered with grass and seed.
Spring
has been slow coming,
But no slower season than Us!
The day grows a touch more special.
It is no inflated ego.
It is no intricate plot.
It's just that I see you in the breaking of the clouds.
A lot.
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