Ashes

the ritualistic days come cursive
mind's boosted and reflective
but there's no parody in this pensive
dream
waste the seconds while you can
pitch the horrors against the fan
and caress me now without a lifespan
to live
long talent seems so amateur
I can't match the ligature
of the only source that assures
purpose
I’m flattened by the tire tracks
deadened by the shocking stacks
of my own distaste I’ve sent in packs
to you
cannot stand the window panes
I’m sifting through the dried, old stains
staring at old memories that pain
me
because nothing's really cursive as it may seem...