how peaceful it is
to sit behind a messy desk, at a time
that is half past ambiguity. where
carefully chosen, cruelly spoken words
the puns used to spike the intensity beyond knowledge
couldn't sniff
to catch a scent, although ashes, possibly,
had the most powerful traces
and were to be apparent
especially to those who wouldn't look to find them

no sound of life is evident
besides a friendly piano melody
which is all you need to know
there is

solitude considered to be a gift, if so
one may ask
would any smile remain as soft
in a world without presents?

can the act of
crafting an ever-so-loose tie
actually be the serendipity
to float into a channel and mate
with one's anxiously looked after eyelashes?

history has it, such a snob has it all
until none is left, not even
for those who lay within the sidewalks
who would a teenage fetus be
to ask for moral refuge, so it seems

feet dangling from his dreams
a breeze hits the peace in the hour
come the time,
ever did he like the taste;
he would still cut his veins
to bleed wine