Gusty Gales

Tensions create chords

that sway.

They fabricate new illusions

plain on stage.

They strangle clouds

in lieu of healthy vents.

They ignore the incoming release,

the explosion from their simple mistakes.

I slide down the thoughts

of has-beens,

what could've become

of these honeysuckle melodies.

In a world

where acts precede kindness

I take comfort in showers

of cooling martyrdom.

The hose has however

run low.

I feel my skin cracking,

the shards of my life

sprawn on the scalding floor.

I lose my mind.

I overflow.

I drown in oxytocin.

I improvise

a prayer to muster

a whisper of golden oxygen.

I'd rather live

in stochastic pockets of time

than face the reality

I can't overwrite.

I can create

but I can't overwrite.

I can forget

but I can't reconcile.

The tension reaches me,

but I refuse to deflate,

for I still wish to levitate

to new heights,

to whatever comes next.

Sweet cotton clouds

don't leave me.

You're the few

that keep my foot on set.