It's in the moments when the weight
of finity compels me not to sleep
that i feel inspired to write
to convince myself that im not wasting breath
on burning out slowly and feeding
complacent ghosts that surrender to the pulse
of jittering blood in a stopped heart
find myself reading byron and finally connecting
or juxtaposing lies
told to others
to convince me
and reiterating the countdown err futility
vipassana or whatever i've made of it
and breathe. in. and burn
with that last breath held and held and held
try not condemn mineself to being
reaching ever outward for smoke with phantomn limbs
a cosmic aria for ever sung we never sing
yet who can face and fight such odds
when one to win must never play
haunted by hindsight regretting chances missed
and choices spurned for fragile bliss
collapsing now, inward, stay awake to watch
the sun come into view once more
this earth was never meant to be our home
In solitude, where we are least alone
Music is an art form that celebrates potential. So long as you're looking for it, you'll always find it.