that hair's strands come raining down in tattered fringes.
or that the hole in the creased, greasy blue shirt...
when looking to the sky for answers-
it should not be inevitable that the heaven's glossy tears
blot out all happiness...
it musn't be left silent - as the flickering whisper
because the freckled and o' so-sallied flesh*
are as evident as
an unfinished simile.
the shallow waters regarded
as barren footprints imprint their nostalgic lips
into empty desks. the breath of meaning
fogging up the windows -
always hoping the next stair will be perfect -
more than the last,
when in fact, wishing- SEARCHING is
the downfall of needy men.
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