The Space of A Conversation

 

Broken bells half-heartedly try to tell time
But time only cares for those who listen.
Cross-legged and contemplative, we gazed
In an encasing of wood and drywall
Words precede existence.

 

Shedding membranes of safety for a foot-path;
Lunar drunk language occupied the way.
Through dew-kissed grass that lingered to long in-
The eye. We believed this was permanent
But towns break the constant.

 

As we oriented our focus to place.
A woman ripped clothing from a trash bag.
Her, circled by a bed of empty lives 
Or discarded selves that she could have been;
Exposed street nudity.

 

I talk to inanimate objects often.
Substantiating their assumed egos.
Reclaiming subjective salutations. 
With the neutrality of made up gods
Viewing our suffering.

 

This stick, my sword; Rimbaudian importance.
Please teach me thoughtful self-rebellion
Against the validation officers
Presuming lack of tangibility 
Equates to a freedom. 

 

Broken bells half-heartedly try to tell time
The space of our conversation now ends
As I hear your eyes shut with cerebral
Burdens that permeate a dreamless sleep.
Will daylight allow release?