Growing up, I guess all I was searching for was a destination.
In its place I saw a beacon of light, beckoning me from the coast.
In disconcerted affairs I barter with myself Shift gears and postures as my partner compells I wonder where he might go? As he siezes control, I know. I put ink in paper replacing mediation Etch future travels and map impulse locations I let the body's quiver navigate the direction of my pen At home among the chaos are attempts to reframe sight Seek new forms; Monuments, oh the treasures found combing through the rubble!
In the end, I only see Faces. Some stare back, other avert their gazes. Some come with limbs and skeletal frames, But they are always Faces. I question what is projected, If I'm projecting anything at all. It is intense to reckon with these unknown knowns of ours. What do these Faces say? What written words could be of use? Life is easy when these inklings can sstart preaching hidden truths. Continue, I'll infulge this fruitless battle with my muse. In frozen minutes of squalor, I ponder. Contemplate longer yet the picture is no stronger. I ran a gambit of candles before the answer's apparent Anguish was aimless fore it sought out acceptance. Not even ourselves are fated to know us. A visage will only reflect the skin's touch. Why should they speak? Their eye's say so much! As my shift adjourns, I farewell my station. When again visits stress and lack of patience. I'll return to draw even more faces.