All Tomorrows

go and ride a thousand days, my clear-eyed messengers, scour all points of the compass and find me a glimpse of iridescence for shining guidance into the unknown on the day that I die

erratic echoes of a swallow's cries faint and shrill, lost midget amid the persian blue vault of turquoise and gentian tiles, pool of cool noon, in iridescent samarkand. the first shy note strikes the oud

and so I'm finally an orphan. all your deaths have scarred my soul: I've grown numb to my own death number 1 of 1

so, eventually there comes a time when our words mean nothing when our ink's dried out and our pain is gone and nothing is, but what we do. ages-old friend  welcome back  together again  let us love facetime

my distant tendrils already burying into seniority, with twenty-six percent of the body and brain slowly breaking down what-the-fuck as I look in the mirror. no gentle business, and ever-so-irreversible. true, it's vaguely becoming - I've got the style now but no looks or stamina are left this sad sod here, waiting for you to catch up with me

single pidgeon in the distance of boundless grey suburban skies. sombreness dememoritised