Winter Coat

Words

Fail me.

Which, really, is ironic,

Because I like them so much.

They shouldn't hide from me like this.

They camouflage themselves so well against songs.

I should still be writing my paper.

I've only one paragraph done.

And that means I'll be writing

What, like four pages tomorrow?

At some point,

Between translating a shitload of Latin,

Which I usually don't mind,

But boy, it's irking me right now.

Typical,

I just want to wave off

These silly obligations.

Who needs it, anyway?

Who needs any of this?

Anything at all?

I may as well be a hermit,

Move up into the mountains somewhere,

Close to the sea.

Scratch that.

I'll be hermit on a boat.

My grand scheme is complete.

I will leave everybody.

Because nothing works out as it was ever meant to,

Words never make sense,

And I feel as though I am

Just an agitator

In the proverbial washing machine.

I'll just sail off,

And away,

And die with my eyes fixed on

The night sky.

And my body will be there, on the boat

And my spirit will be gone,

Somewhere else.

Or maybe,

No place at all.

But for now,

I am here,

Shipless and sail-less,

And stuck.

Like roots of some tree,

I am anciently placed in the soil,

Unable to go.

Anywhere.

If I may just stop.

All might be fine.

And I am so wrapped up in things that are not.

Things that are have stopped interesting me momentarily.

I am only aware of what I dream.

These things that whisper and tickle.

The winds of my dreams stir my hair back,

And they're cold.

Dreams always have chilly tails.

Vesper

Is latin for evening.

I find the word pretty.

I find the evening to be pretty.

In dreams,

I think of you,

And I stand all starry-eyed,

And think of these things that I can almost touch.

They are so close.

But they're far-off.

Like you feel sometimes with the stars.

They are so far,

But you swear you could grab a great handful of them out of the sky.

Can I just say,

That I had this lovely vision,

Of you and I.

It was natural,

And it will never be.

No matter.

Nothing ever is.

Right now.

All I want

Is a cup of tea.

And some energy to edit a poem.

I have no energy.

Nor tea.

I have increasing yawns.

Goodnight and adieu.