Your eyes; an iridescent wasteland, never to be confided in
Your lips; lithe and delicate to the touch, warm and zealous

I believe not in your eyes nor your face –
As truth wallows within the soreness of your voice

Tactful by melodramatic handshakes
Embellished with feign yet brilliant smiles

I whisper to hear a response that is true
Either I am deaf, or you speak too softly

Kindly, sprawled between the angst of life
And the detachment of death --
I follow those hollow footsteps to the grave

Knees on the ground, hands at my sides, I wait.
The jealous vibrancy of the morning blazes on.

The visibility of you is lost.

I no longer fear the number one, due to the loss of the number two.
I grow on alone, amid the sad endless deserts and fretful aversions.

8-1-04 _ 1:49 am