It takes time
But it always ends the same.
The last passenger on a never-ending train.
After others have departed.
Left-over pieces, causing problems and discarded.
I am afraid of nerve blocks.
I want to observe despite
Coping by confabulation.
Brain like a black hole.
Floaters in the eye.
Tricks and tricks and tricks of the mind.
Which way is clockwise
If you don’t acknowledge time?
What is lost in translation
If there are seven billion languages?
Seven billion prisms refracting into spectrums.
Seven billion brushstrokes mixing pigment collectively.
Seven billion dendrites branching to the next 100 neurons.
Not flawless or limitless or entirely unrelatable.
Uniquely inconsistent with
I love it so, and never want it to be lost.
Wake me up or wear it off
My remarkable fear of the nerve blocks.
Before you fly your banner across the sky,
You better cross your T’s; dot your I’s.
Did you think real hard about the words you wrote?
Would they sound the same coming out of your throat?
If you paint your banner for your future wife,
Make sure it doesn’t float into someone else’s life.
Is it attached to a jet, a fighter pilot, or a sailboat?
Will it hang on your car, or over your castle’s moat?
I want to touch the words and see them carved in the air;
I want to feel the syllables fall on deaf ears through my hair.
Avez-vous fait tout le travail?
Are you sure you’re ready for your message to fly?
I know it’s a hassle, but you mustn’t offend—
Words can be weapons, because they bend and they bend.