Non-Action

You are a slow playing piano in the background, just soft enough to not arouse suspicion.

I look for You on nights such as these, when I am not quite myself.

But to be honest for once I am never quite myself or ever honest.

I am sure You know all this and I am just repeating myself for enjoyment of others.

There is a breathing on the outskirts of an unreal dream.

Catching words in a net made of unamended promises and sanctions against Your participation.

I dreamt and bled You were here, but all came to nothing in the cold reality of morning.

The stink of bestial mystical messiahs drowns out my attention from the moving within.

I am an imperfect creation, abstractions manifesting from the inky chaos of notebooks.

Poems and body pins tacked to the walls along with wounded images of the proud.

There are no spooks here, just murders and those that have abandoned the sense of touch.

I smell the intake of You and taste saltiness that perhaps could be You also.

Its no wonder things go wrong when I never try the correct posture at nap time.

Ruin in the rubble, casting blue blankets on the feelings of non-action and sympathy.

I live my sadness through others, while attempting to make love to a Ghost.

Dru