What Is.

The words that are spoken in physical manifestation.

The men that arrest my head with intrigue inundations.

The flow that strides through interrupted affectations.

The deaths that compile each day's achievements.

The instant when everything falls into place.

The doubt that announces itself in waves.

The longing for a violence that may only be love.

The palpable desire for nothing in particular.

The grace that hits my limbs when I'm seen.

The look that middle aged men unashamedly give me.

The space that abandoned its pretense propriety.

The book that saved me from betraying belief.

The face that lures my mind into lustful abandon.

The archetypes that I relentlessly rely on.

The truth that hurts no more than the moral.

The flaws I admit to be my own and innumerable.

The faith that wraps my soul like a blanket.

The certitudes that may never be completed.

The loss of banal commiseration.

The change that sheds old skin amid the old kingdom.

The cost that matters most is not freedom.

The help always bounteous and sometimes cumbersome.

The past and its lessons released from incarceration.

The delay necessary for an unveiling of reason.

The time scattered across my tamed organs.

The days falling with the patience of Autumn.

The fire that awaits on the edge of self obedience.

The gaze that would once contain the momentum.

The sigh wishing to erase the whisper it strives for.

The dreams of the perfect skinned other me deconstructed.

The high of stage fright exhilaration.

The night and the inescapable lonesome.