Voices as real as my thoughts
flood the air, and I hear
none of them with distinction.
It is I, now,
with the distance in his vision.
My secrets are commonplace,
from the children I’ve not fathered
to the unattainable.
I whisper a name to myself the most
then hide with mindfulness
my muddy intentions.
Past this moment,
my words have no meaning.
The leather-bound Bible
of my creation
outlasts all rain and fire;
our unspoken agreement is
written in its pages.
All I hear gives music to the noir,
clarification.
The world is ugly,
and I laugh so that
maturity is more than
sentience, more than
immersion or separation.
The shades are drawn,
and still I keep our secret,
afraid to keep eye contact
without hiding behind my words.
Past this moment,
my words have no meaning.
