Walking the thin line
between inactivity and pain
a devil’s workshop
An atmosphere of echoes surrounds
with the gentle brush of memories
making me reflective but not blue

The silent and the omnipresent distraction
makes way for a remembrance of a feeling
or my memory of that feeling that no longer
resides in truth but at its border
almost nudging itself down the cliff
to the valley of melancholy

A violin wrecks the music of doom
or the eventuality of it
that can fall upon me anytime
any moment
How will I remember it then?
As what it was, the truth
or as deceptive as a myth

It’s this looking into the future
that deludes living
It’s this staying ahead of myself
that betrays, staying
breeding stories of loved ones leaving
because the eventual doom is the myth
I live by
the eventual doom is the myth
that I’m trying to build