Never yell at the children playing.
They are in a separate realm from us.
You’ve no right to break the white rabbit’s
neck, even if it does end up on your lawn.
They say your imagination only dies when
you stop using it and we know the guise of
adulthood is a bitter pill to swallow.
Don’t yell at the children playing.
Try to remember how to play amidst their
version of reality, instead.
You may just find yourself a bit curiouser.
“No you haven’t lost your sanity, you’ve lost your conscience,” says the Bagman, dark irises boring into the Truth.
“My conscience?” She counters, awareness lingering on the note of her tone. He thinks to himself that she’s much too clever for this stage act. He pulls down the curtain of a sigh when he sees the confusion in her eyes.
“Yes and it’s always such a telling part of yourself to lose.”
This time her naive smile turns to a frown, head tilting sideways in his direction. The movement is so fluid he questions his previous disposition. Was this really the same woman he once knew, and if so, what had happened to her?
He nearly scoffs, surely she knew. Surely she had to know.
“We don’t lose our consciences, we choose to ignore them. That’s the thing about it, this has always been a choice.”
She stares at him for a while, the wind whipping in earnest against both of their backs. The capitol sits boorishly in the distance, a mere skeleton of a building, a simple vessel to the entities in question. She notices the chill in the tips of her fingers and wraps them around the center of his palm.
“A choice, you say.”
“I don’t believe anything in life is ever really a choice.”
“Life itself has always been a choice. A choice made up by other choices, if you will.”
“How did you get so clever?” She tilts her head with a slight grin, attempting to get a better glimpse at his eyes.
“I started listening to you, instead of trying to prove my own lies.”
When a person dies do you stop
loving them? Then why is it so hard
to love a person when they leave?
Loss, it is an uncontrolled substance.
It knows no bounds of human capacity.
It desires nothing but experience.
Love, it’s much like grief in the way you
soon learn to carry on in its absence.
With or without is still very much felt.
The throb at the root of the cause?
Sometimes you’ve just got to count
your losses as lessons
and your lessons as liaisons.
We are vastly approaching
the edge of the dreamscape,
and while most would bundle
their jackets in sight of the end,
I’d tear my shirt to the wind and
let the snow melt into my skin,
kiss you once but never again.
It is well past five on my side,
well past the time to unwind;
Well past a pulse increasing
as a thought idles by.
It is three in the afternoon
for your sulking pride,
and I wonder sometimes,
if midday tastes as lonely
for you as it does for me.
Merely a thought but
never a dream.
My love life is like Goldilocks,
this one is too hot,
this one is much too cold.
I’m always waiting for the
one that is ‘just right’.
Never mind the fact I broke
into someone else’s house
to begin with.
I can feel it lingering
in the hold of absence,
shaking the hands of
rounding the edge of
disconnect with a
stifling the breath of
death with each
pulse we’ve made.