Having stumbled in the middle of a song of myself
I am the problem, having come this far to fail or fall.
Ticking clock takes my time, I am embarrassed and
sting like salt in it's only a paper moon wound.
Aperture quick-click closes shut and camera
cataract breath clouds the window of my soul
like drops of milk falling into clear still water.
Try to knock, now, but no one is home.
Unravel my body and leave it on the gravel, folded
neatly in the headed corner of this tomb-ed room.
I have resurrected to walk these woods, alone.
I might never come back, just leave a message.
Sorry, I didn't hear any of what you said.
My body was here, but I was over there
where those clouds become rock mountains
between the branches of those two trees.
Come again?