artist of conversation

i think it was the social dynamic

of the whole operation that did you in.

the closed doors, the wide open faces

and the dead long spaces

gaping between every word.

the sea-sick tones like music at a funeral,

where i once had a greater grip on myself

because right now i'm all over the place,

dissolving out the window, choosing to flow

through the casket of darkness.

it's nothing short of a tablet of scripts

that offers me a temporary fix.

i trust in its earthly prayers

and that somewhere in its layers

of pages, i will find a drive.

and now i am an artist of conversation.

at your service, worthwhile to keep,

unfortunately prophetic and quite cheap.

i string the webs that haunt your walls.

i lay siege to whatever and all.