the flux of overwhelming audiences
All warble in disappointment
to the murmur of another odious love poem
hollow
I am many
rarely do I feel the norm of me
whatever that is
wherever that may be
this is not my journey
it is that of Many
and "I", or the recollections there of, am rapidly fading
perception
sutured with constructed hints
venally grasping toward purpose
watching the workings at a distance
experiencing the tumultuous veering
while drowning in welled up
great salt lakes
vacant and vapid
clutching to the echoes
the tidbits of magnetism
and the conundrum
all sputtering the incantations of naiveté's sting
"left... empty...ready to be filled again"
