Epic Mimicry and Studied Elegance
Too late to write. Too early to sleep. Too tired to talk. Too wired to stop. My night drifts into your day. Guitar too heavy to lift. Songs too hard to hear. The bed beckons, one side bursting from the wealth of books, the other empty, expecting my acceptance, my shallow shuddering breathing. And all we know is what we learned, and what we learned is all we know. We know it all except the secrets of our hearts. We live and pose, facsimile, until the feeling starts. One hears words, another a song. Both a dirge and somehow wrong. And the moon looks on at the fools, its laughter ripples the heavens, waves of undulating mirth that never reach the earth.