The Horizon Stands Alone

standing upon my deck made of distress, i look out at the yard, covered with white. and the farther i look out the more grey it becomes. and if you pulled up those oak planks that make the deck you'd find at least fifty corpses. ones of love, friendship, the briefly acquainted, the souls who dropped when they caught a glimpse of the future laid in front me (something i can't ever see because i'm within it, and the passage is dark so only those far enough away can shed some light upon it). however, there are also ones that belong, the beasts, and domineering, the radical engineer who stole a heart that was so close to me, i thought it belonged. the damnation they must feel is something i can't fathom, and when i set out to the find the god i believe in, i'm sure that's the first thing i'll ask. why do some us have to spend such time suffering?

back on the deck and the cedar is unfinished. unprotected from the elements, i can relate to that. and it's all quite like the book i'm currently rehearsing. the lines etched in my mind, they come out at unpleasant times, i need to reschedule the mind. and blink ahead in my eyes.  a practice that no longer is preached, i reach out for my memories and they grab back. the past that i allowed to consume my present,  the one who acted as my co conspirator for all the grief stashed away. and it might create a certain scene in ones mind, me standing upon my enemies, i acted willfully. don't let it fool you, a picture paints 1,000 words, but not this time. and yes you can argue perspective, but i don't have access to yours.

and there is no perfect horizon - like the one i imagine miles away in the midwest. flatland could do such justice to what i'm feeling versus what i'm acting out. my horizon is hiding behind houses, and trees mainly. but there is the occasional outlandish, gigantic sort of heartbreak that smears the horizon, and lets it fade what should be close to perfect. i reach out and draw the imaginary line with my finger. what-should-be has ruined a lot of my opportune ventures. the blurred lines between the sky and the ground make everything a bit more surreal. it often leads to a sort of state of confusion on my part where i have these mishaps where while at my destination i'm unaware of the steps i took to get there. or i take a count twice, and still can't come up with a number. these steps and numbers are minuscule but the mere fact that this happens concerns me. then i forget. i've turned to writing things down, small notes. then people ask me what they mean, but i haven't the slightest clue. something about a cover up. is it criminal or exposure. do i need to call the station and tell them what i know? would i turn myself in for all the crimes i commit, or just the ones that haunt my daily life, the ones i remember, that leave me dismayed and buried in dilemma. catching up with myself is weekly task, i tend to rewrite the history books and add some pomp where it never belonged. and a tackle box that i repeatedly tell people i go fishing with, the solitude does me worlds of wonderful god-like goodness, and i suggest to them they try it out. solitude becomes more socially acceptable if you're terrorizing fish in the process.