Truths Skewed

                                                                                          Truths Skewed



         My windows are dirty, smudging the reality of what lies beyond them; twisting and molding and crafting visions, to transform them into something somewhat worth beholding; creating deep dark blue oceans (rolling and crashing and creeping up land, just to reach out and soothingly hold my toes, for whatever brief a moment), out of puddles, left from morning rain, that plague my shoes with blankets of mud. I ought to clean those windows. I ought to clean them and keep them clean. I ought do much that I have been evading, but I haven’t the intention of changing a thing. I haven’t the intention of changing at all.

         Kept safe in a dwelling where smeared realities may permeate, and flow and be taken for truth. Where words misspoken and promises forgotten are a flowerbed lying near my front door; they smell of heaven and could not be more exquisite. I eagerly, and most gently, pick them and allow them in, to grace me with skepticism, no more beauteous than a weed I would viciously tug from the ground. Where did you come from? How did you get here? I did not choose you. You were not (are not?) what I wanted, but you are what is there before me, and what I brought here myself. Anxiety reigns during thought as such, and must quickly be stifled by things of a more comforting nature.

         Swallowed up by less mundane things. The windows still dirty? I ought to clean them. Work in piles amidst work in piles? I ought to break them down. There’s much I ought do- swallowed up by less mundane things. How do I get closer to keeping you near, and farther from letting you go? 

         Work in piles amidst work in piles, and I remain busy contemplating them. Drumming fingers accompany tapping feet to produce a symphony unlike any a man has heard. All too quickly, pencils and pens (I thought I held), become knives and forks, become linens atop a bed, and in, through the windows, stares the moon. Ah, yes, the windows, a hindrance to be dealt with another date. Work in piles amidst work in piles, must be thrashed and overcome swiftly. Triumph, is all that can be accepted, all that will be accepted. The aftermath cleared, the piles dissembled- the result held, brilliant, it’s certain, until scrutinized thoroughly and judged completely, and I’m faced with-  Where did you come from? How did you get here? I did not choose you. You are not what I wanted . . . swallowed up by things less mundane once more, things to be taken in with ease, to divert, amuse, and engross- to fill.

         I often wonder how it’s supposed to be. Picturesque perhaps, the way stories may fallow, but where I seem to be uninvited and barred. Only, Peering through the windows blurred, cruelties go unnoticed, disregard is as deep and everlasting as the purest of souls, and I hang amongst the stars, ever burning, with a silent passion, lasting many lifetimes over. How do I get closer to keeping you near, and farther from letting you go?  I sometimes ascertain that the grand, the scenic, aromatic place that drifts from dreams into reality, unyielding, bringing pleasures thought unattainable, is just where my delusions meet your convenience, in a convergence that lies near my front door. 

         My windows are dirty. I ought to clean them. Melodiousness never repaid? Thoughtlessness acceptable? Can flowers become weeds, or were they just weeds all along? Dreams became realities, and realities became nightmares, invading and smearing and unveiling something impossible to ignore. My labors provide your successes, wrapped in a smile, all too ready to dissipate, all too promptly fleeing this site. Syrupy sweet, just a mask for sour and wicked; eyes so deep, they warm and lull, sing daggers that pierce and sting and destroy. Yearnings must be tucked away, to be freed and forgotten, so that they may not stay and fester here, where they surely hold no bearing. Where did you come from? How did you get here? You were not (are not?) what I wanted, but you are what is there before me, and what I brought here myself. Swallowed up by things of a less pressing nature, once more.

         Silenced awareness, and truths all too skewed, ignite and burn at the core. They’ll fall away, melding and fusing together, creating something of a jumbled certainty that is certain of nothing, but what is seen through dirty windows. Smeared and smudged and flowered truths spread, infect, invade, dragging me with them, as an unwilling passenger on a course to where my convoluted delusions meet your convenience. Anxiety reigns. How do I get closer to keeping you near, and farther from letting you go?  I’m swallowed up by something less mundane . . . Diverting . . . Amusing . . . Engrossing . . . Work in piles amidst work in piles. I ought to break them down, but they’re a hindrance to be dealt with another date. Pencils and pens, become knives and forks, become the linens atop a bed. In stares the moon, and in the glow of her luminescence, a reflection. Mine? Where did you come from? How did you get here? You are not what I wanted, but you are what is there before me, and what I brought here myself.

         My windows are dirty, the reality skewed. I ought to clean those windows. I ought to clean them and keep them clean. I suppose, there is much I ought have done, and much I ought to do, but I haven’t the intention of changing a thing. I haven’t the intention of changing at all.