the death of beauty

I just woke up the same way I have done for
one hundred sundays, in my bed alone, still
sleepy, quickly losing my dream awareness.
I start thinking of my lonliness. It burns,
but not enough; I am still comfortable here,
in this repeating cycle, that always brings
me to my thoughts on sunday. It is not good.
My head is blocked and heavy; by the end of
each day, I am falling down defeated. I can
remember being alive with a quick vibrancy,
connected like water to the vast expanses of
a world spread out beneath me. Now I am sad.
I want to see you, right now; there is no
better time. I turn to you, turning inward
to myself, a soft place, and a blinking
ember, just enough to ignite the old flame.

Today, we are all womanly. A little twisted
shield, that you hold, that you need, that
will not protect you. We must learn to open
in the tender way of flowers to one another.
But I am just bored, and cynical. And I am
obviously stuck in a place where love is so
scarce, I am oblivious to the love I found.
Like a giant snake, return. Give me a soft
home in the hills, where the earth is clean,
and the water is cool and fresh; give me all
this and I will abandon the tired old wheel
of constant unhappiness. I am longing for a
life. I am longing and pulling hard at it's
threads, my failure. The death of beauty, in
all my dreams, strained out of the faces and
houses, making little buzzing model machines
to fly; crying out how long I've loved you.