Two Like Grey

Grey revives elements forgotten.
Devise unspoiled expanse.
Bright white vibrates the sternum.
Future wishes inject brilliance into humdrum.
Stars settle silver streams, steering instinct.
Grey’s dark clings palpable, not lurid.
Nothing grotesque flurries through inner workings.
Hunger vivifies void.
Inertia corners warm craving.

Little Love

I know her struggle parallels mine. She tries to figure it out by listening to bad advice; to reconcile unrequited self acceptance amidst so much noise. Suggestions rain down like anvils. “You have a roof over your head. You live in a country where school shootings happen often, but you don’t have to worry about having a bomb dropped on your head.” Little love and even less belief fuel the fire in her mind. How can I keep telling her this will pass? She already knows to point out that it will come back. She consumes my details, and purges them right back out. The very same way I do. We are in this together. That fact is not fortunate or comforting for me. I’m glad that it is for her. Wishing to bring relief while spinning my wheels, does nothing for her or me. Be present, solidly present. For what? More of this shit? No thanks. I want the beauty, I want the magic, I want the wonder that I see as her to be visible to her.

Lost With Strophe

I am lost with Strophe. She is lost too. 
We suppose it is better to be lost together than alone.
Strophe possesses a nature that confuses the masses.
She encompasses a desire to bring intentions to action.
Strangely, she assigns isolation to singularity.
At the best of times, and for the particular, correctness satisfies her.
At the worst of times, Strophe feels misplaced, displaced.
People do not recognize the surmise is the demise. 

These days, her apostles are few.
Adrift in ambiguity, I do not know if we will ever be found.