Is it all worthwhile

Scrubbing those marks off the tiles?

Your eyes remind me of dead grass.

Someone cried bitter tears into them.

Tell me, were they mine?

Because I promise you, they look so familiar.

At night, I dream of twisted things.

I scream until a soft soreness

Pervades my nervous folds.

I rip things apart, taunt my deepest pests.

I know I've seen those eyes before.

How do they change so quickly?

From night fall to day break

The tempo is too slow for the crescendo.

There's an itching in my muscles.

Every time I see a mountain

I wonder which man claimed it,

Which man find it fit to see the beauty in,

Which man call it mountain,

Or mole hill.

Which maestro can raise it up high

Over his head

To conduct the trees and the plains

On how to match the thunder of an earthquake

The tempo is too slow for the crescendo.

Your iris is the color of marble masses,

Laden pillars anchored in the depths of my womb.

Those swallowing, deep thoughts

Thinking in the ideals of grace, space,

And purity.

But all my blunders, tripping over

Mannequins made my disgrace fuller.

I was trying to be one with your eyelids.

When mine closed, yours stayed open,

When mine opened, it was a staring contest

With your endless gaze.

They shot spades

That penetrated.

I couldn't collapse

I fought with all my might.

Images with blurred accuracy

Painted the air a cowardly yellow

Reminiscent of the sunlight.

Soon, green grass waved across the landscape

Familiar pleasantries we sometimes speak

In cyclical motions