Twilight, Twilight

the fleeting, spattering of teardrops
on the window
endlessly and pointlessly racing towards their doom
inevitability

a brick wall of a deal--
the kind that's too small to climb over
but too big to jump over...

the last stop the tram shudders into
bells a-wailin'
the tracks are redgrey and warped
a spring not quite sprung

winter ends with a sigh
the credits roll
and the names are all but ignored
phrases only half remembered when spoken

we walk on the graves
of all of us

the music of art
leaps into the mind complete
a fairy. Finished blueprints, perhaps?
A map? An archive
of things to come or of the now?

What is art if not a snapshot of the now
what is life, but now?

Defeated, repleted
and never repeated.

We mutter to ourselves, blank faces giving away naught
enscribe and etch poems into
cloud tablets

and we frown at those who when alone
can stand to speak aloud

Alone, alone
with not a home

something into nothing into something into
learning life lessons from grinning unlions
and unlions over again...

real in every way but the 'real' one
are we not, then, the less real ones?
to exist in but one and call THAT real?
real...

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This is just a depressed stream-of-conciousness rant. It's got some good parts, but sometimes you just gotta write some crap, if you see what I mean.