the past has been secretly tape recorded by the man at the window
and all of our moans are his too
death defying mannequins stream into a gilded chariot
turning their rotting backs to the outside world
heathen rhythm pounds softly in the street light
blinked, and gone, quickly as tomorrow.
i sit in my tower,
thoughts of you too impressive to voice
and wonder why i can't remember your face
we don't talk anymore
conversations as transparent as our intentions
betray the things we will never say.
i want you even now.
was it always this way,
taut as the unbroken surface of water in a glass?
it seems so, the old man said to the worm,
for my eyes are weary and soon will be yours and
this world has grown tired of seeing them.