They Say It�s Why We Live
Canvases of pre-existing contemplations repeat.
I ponder with my bowl of mental accusations.
Undetermined.
It’s called being a craven, an innocent coward.
Beige shackles undetermined my growing desires.
They all know, or most do, about my hold out.
I gaze at the temporary that calls my wanting.
I can taste the sugar they share.
A petty illusion I have only leased.
Or instead, I threw it away.
Loneliness is karma, offspring of the sovereign of fire.
It’s always fashionable, always casual.
I wear it around my neck, on my sleeve.
But unless I allocate the mountainous peak,
No one will know I own it.
But I’d rather you recover it first,
Find it before I foolishly lease it, yet again.
Please.
