truth

On paper
We do not doubt the opened sails of words and lines
But faith sinks in sultry muck
Our concern amounts to nothing, our hollow words
Now crowded the night
In the rising hum of inaudible realities
Worry wrinkles are winding roads
We cannot listen to, absorb
We cannot grasp, remember
So
The ideas take flight and fly far from
We pour bubbling guilt by the gallon into our advertised reveries
What You, formal, always wanted, plural
Always plural
Never full
We, our temporary lives are drifting.

The night, just us
In the far off future nestled with
What might have been or will be when
We’re closer, still the same
As sunny afternoons in the shade
Reminiscent lines strain and dip
I am my photographer

The open night alone
With asphalt spinning rubber wings
Silent steps to the end
This is the religion without doubt
Roll through the eternal seconds
The doubt itself
When our words
Are what we mean