Cool as the air that spans the room,

and grinning gently in your rest,

you spin the fans inside;

which bide your plans to be the best.



Subtle awhile, until you slip,

beyond the vision intended to veil;

far from gained of she the lesser grip,

until your waking fates 'of we' to fail.





And by these words; written, in being red,

you are lost the façade; of and for your head.







Seeing you lie thus separate,

she is found again; the lonely lame;

the target of a tearless love;

the subject of a silent shame.



Discomfort rises, sized by the heat,

comprised of conscious, missed, routines.

The manner of exchange here too careful,

and wordless, to share in part, or too full;





the empty place where our sight convenes.







And you are falling into light,

on the heavy law of circumstance.

Where once a distant glint,

now windows, open of advance.



Each brandish the iocane-powdered point of common sense,

that love once misspawned in 'sensation's heat.'

That love must be bested as views diverge;

beloved features let be set to merge,





to a darkness within the demise,

that each may leave the other's life complete.









The height of the tall tale of all small lies,

has become the slight opening of your eyes.

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