Was Out of Sync.

Swimming against the stresses of life,
the dactyl abstinence of hidden permanence,
I lose myself with each new difference,
the ‘six feet under’ and diligence,
where each outgrowth births moving emptiness,
simple times and simple filtering,
the fake parade to pass passing days,
locked amongst false loyalties
that haunt forgotten tongue,
I spoke a language instinctive of my soul
and treasured, with promises, shamelessly.
With each new word I learn new silences,
the manifestation of each stranger that birthed me disfigured,
to breathe beneath elapsed wounds and specimens
of conjured truths, uttering,
the slippery innocence of testament.

But I
was out of sync with

The airglow soliloquy of her always,
dancing between the backlights,
where holding time as beachheads,
ready for running with newly forming heartbeats,
became the love of borrowed birthright,
bootlegged dreams against simmering boxcars,
taking us to all those places
we conjured between the tracks, showcasing,

She
Was out of sync with…

And I bled each syllable to meet her eyes

Shouldering inscriptions realigned
To
Airless ordeal, yet never replied.

Forgotten abstracts,

Heartwise railcars drifting

In equal space and time…

And she
Was out of sync

And I

Was never enough.

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Poem © Phen Weston 2015

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