finding your own beauty

I scrape the dust slowly off my brow;
in the practice of contorting
my brain to dream-like proportions
I need a bigger space.

My watch keeps on not ticking to the
week before-hand, a jest towards the
infallibility of wishing for
the things we had known.
_____________________________________

So when all the noise has gone
I can begin to focus on what I touch.
There are classes and castes for all my
wrongdoing, and it's much
simpler to categorize when
all these belongings are left open
and pure, to see better.

A man writes something in
charcoal black; perhaps it is his
life story and the
words only make sense in
that sombre scratch.

I have endeavored myself to
a dark navy: the shade of a vast ocean
where crumbs dissolve 
and
I can rarely venture
and  
which I sometimes have longings for.


Each cut on the wooden wall
becomes a small memento of some
destructive mind, and what they would
not realize is the dense, unforgiving permanency
of this minute slip.


There is a silent couple in love
and line.
He wraps his fingers around her
fingers and for a minute he can
grasp the very fabric of her life in
the forgotten bloodstream of her digits.