unfinished

I build a sort of fortress with my books
I make a sort of home out of my dreams
but something always comes along
and opens white-washed walls to black-bled sleep
                                      and other-room voices steal into me


and along the repetition of ocean front images
and caked-over layers of dust
treads the light foot of Ruin
forever boding death


And still I build a sort of fortress with my books
I make a sort of home out of my dreams
but trances linger short
and open white-washed walls to black-bled sleep
                                      and other-room voices steal into me


and the watery lights that used to
attach themselves to my feet
have all blinked out and collect beneath
the piers of subjectivity


And somehow I build a sort of fortress with my books
I make a sort of home out of my dreams
but the reigns have reeled me in
and open white-washed walls to black-bled sleep
                                      and other-room voices steal into me
                                                                  again,
                                                                      etc.