good friends

I feel this slow death creeping
creeping
it touches me with brevity
with sincerity


I feel alone in the crowd
this crowd, right now.
all crowds


and I dream of golden days
shining through dull windows
but i just feel sad
and alone
and know that all grass is brown
everywhere


My stars are fickle
my loves obtuse
all my connections are
nothing more than burning piles
of leaves
destined to turn to ash
red embers
and follow the swirling breeze
home
away


I fight for my hands and feet
but they tell me to
grow up
to understand these impish
insults
but the torpid, latent reaction
of analyzation
is quiet and certain
as death by drowning
and is my weakness.