tickle my ear with promise,
but say what you will.
weak will bends lobes
hard of hearing.
sounds ring strong of
pitches over thrown.
hearing a present predicted
but remembered at present.
looking back for that
which travels from ahead.
well, it comes from more
than one head, but
perspective is personal.
i’ll put my hands up
but don’t hold me to it.
thud, thud, thud
the note pound my senses.
it reads, thinking felt.
the spaces between
reach towards one another
only to have their grasp
thwarted upon reflection.
pronounced initials
of first impressions,
whose brevity transfigures
misinterpretation,
decays under analysis.
living contrition assumed
when death is.
trying too hard
to be myself
when what i am
is not hard.
softly spread thin
and losing substantiality,
this coarseness requires
an acquired taste.
such grit kneads
loose regard.
debris tickles
fickle fingers,
to which winds
pull grasps.
i’m reaching for branches,
but instead, i grab twigs.
my extension is met
will repulsion.
why can i not reach
what i want?
why must my slacken
grip obstruct me
from my will?
i control nothing.
i’m but a mere
reaction of response
to a question
out of reach.
