Waiting Game

And so the tired old dance goes on
what hideous frames hide within a stone’s throw
aching for the freedom to be
motion like clockwork hiding behind
7:45 in the morning and the delusions
that everything begins the way it ends

those frames, built like iron giants
from the dreams of our fathers
on the tears of our mothers
and the corpses of children

I’ve had a brilliant idea,
a novel plot
before it all crumbles beneath us
terror from the world we have wrought upon ourselves
this is not a poem

answer the phone dear,
from empty autumn
where everything once lonely
continues to traverse the boulevard
drifting like the dead leaves that make lovers content

when it all starts to call again
like the ringing phone
asking for redemption
do we echo the lines we’ve been taught,
or break away and change the future?

ugliness is green and grown
sprouting up like a manifest
there’s no grand finale,
we all simply leave, one at a time

What hideous strength lies in broken frames
what mighty terror in the hearts of men
lives happen in technicolor now
but once there was no time

I’ve had a plot to discern
the nature of the universe
with a single moment of clarity
a single meditation
and i have failed

this cup of tea cannot console me
where I’ve gotten it wrong
and no poem, story or song
has the ability to now atone
or set right what has been done

When the tides rise and flood our gates
I’ll fall by the wayside,
looking into a fractured mirror
an echo of a word never spoken
the shadow of a mind projected onto this stage

interlude.
interlude.
interlude.
resume.

Every step taken in waking
echoes forever in our dreams
and hell is simply repeating everything we did once
forever and ever

when it ends, who knows what we might be?
are we angels?
I think not.
Watch me, watch me.

Look at the watch now.
Look at the time.
when it all resumes in silence
will it all have been rehearsal?

Sadly, it shall have been a grand game of waiting
waiting for perfection to happen
building on center stage
a mimic that shall never have an audience

when life works out her strange and dastardly loops
and Godel meets Escher in Sarajevo,
then, then we shall be gods again
eating from the tree of life

then you shall have that which you want
and I shall simply live
we’ll let the world grow round us
and enjoy the lonely autumn breeze

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