i held it in my hands,
an idea too far-fetched,
i remember staring at it.

of course it was beautiful,
it was an impossibility,
that i held close to my heart.

until it vanished, suddenly,
without so much as a warning,
i truly ought to have cried.

instead, i turned away,
an irresponsible keeper,
of my own ludicrous ideas.

i’ve not yet found another,
nor clearly recalled,
my mislaid vision.

i shall keep looking,
always for the beautiful,
struggling for the unobtainable.

for whatever reason i am,
peddler of the impossible,
cherisher of the absurd.

that old lady

her marbled legs blended well
with the faded ink upon her arms

the cigarette wobbled all the while
she often cackled about her youth

but her eyes betrayed her humor
for sincere regrets and shattered hope

she often slurred too much
to talk about abandoned dreams

so I would listen to her fairy-tales
wondering how much she believed

eventually she’d forget I was there
become lost in mummbles to herself

I tried to smile, but it was hard
Inevitably, I’d excuse myself…

she kept on talking, smoking, drinking
until, at last, she passed away

gone, to wherever a godless woman goes
I missed her then, that old lady… grandma

fiction and its discontents

those little lenses flicker,
as if they’re in a dream.

the heart, it races quicker,
caught up in the scheme.

you hear him… even snicker,
at humor never seen.

the common-man points his finger,
at black ink upon a page.

he escapes his life to linger,
on some fantastic stage.

immortal is the bringer,
who manages to assuage…

the discontented,
with his fiction.