My steel pleasure has already drifted into the night,
And now I sit isolated above the court of lovers held tight.
Stillness haunts me as though I’m caught in a picture frame,
With the lonely fog at my toes whispering some forgotten name.
Envy lingers and takes up the role of my cursing muse,
Dictating the colors and friends left for me to accuse.
Images come about in the spaces of my conflicting neuroscapes,
As fingers trace these figures of submission, an assortment of failing shapes.
Strokes of vibrancy fall upon my empty, white expanse,
Enveloping a cosmic traveler who can do nothing but dance.
His limbs removed by hateful stars, replaced by forms inorganic.
My creation now stares at me, a look that appears manic.
I rise against the weight of my eyes, a burden I do not care for,
And approach my soft tomb, a sentence I admire and abhor.
I cannot hear love in such a state, debasing my desire,
But to say I didn’t dream of it would make me a liar.
Lost on a separate plane of sensation, I desire the feeling of blasé.
Soon a guide will set me to rest, looking out to experience a new day.