a man who lived in dreams

"Its just that he was always alone,
never anyone to share the game.
...He was a man who lived in dreams."
----Spike Spiegel


He travelled,
displacing gravel where he placed his feet,
and
things unravelled where he placed his faith,
and though he waded through hands
in outstretched lands
not one could hope to touch this wraith.

Wordless little partial artist starts his day
to a sunrise.
Flies
circle memories he can't make himself throw away.

Parallel-parked next to dark is horizon-line, blinding,
and if you look for him with your eyes, you'd have a hard time finding.
Seek the sound of sadness slipping serenely
from his lips,
slowly speaking storms
till the thunderclouds rip.

Overcast,
blast his past disasterous.
Vast is the last gaseous planet
vanished from his path.
It's tragic.
In it all, he's
erratic, automatic static-electric hectic inflection,
venting introspection direct to her detection.
Rejection is a bitch.
Ain't it rich,
lightning striking to split where he just stitched?
Affection collections are mentioned where
attention deficit.
Shit,
won't she at least spit in his direction?
Direct hit,
selfish sky,
eyeballing from high
crying onto his erection,
dying.
His wings are soaked.
The gutters choke.
He should be flying.

"My life is rain," he plainly states,
his brain afraid to stay and wait.
"My life's an empty picture frame.
"...Never anyone to share the game.
"It's just a shame.
"Too little, too late."

With no one to blame,
he detonates.