the mess

 
 
 
 
whether walking on the  
dangerous icy roads of  
love  
 
or eating small Viennise  
wiennies out of a tin  
 
whether searching for  
a purpose bigger than  
then the pale phantoms  
of dreams  
 
or losing bits and pieces  
of life to the wealth of  
shadows  
 
time has no wings, but  
still flys like an angry  
Falcone preying on  
vermin  
 
the beginning of the  
end is the ends beginning  
and is some kind of sick  
joke that only the gods  
could understand  
 
flying like a kite with  
a hole torn in its side,  
the journey is unholy,  
and there is no whole  
truth in fail safe  
destinations  
 
someday we will find  
ourselves nowhere  
 
and there be naught  
but the sound of  
taps softly fading  
into the soul of  
night