in the quiet of evening
passions turning into mellow
the heat of August fades
giving way to memories
outdated melodies
of sentiment and ambition
dreams turned to confusion
getting lost
in the depths of desire
an attempt to focus
thought and word
strangled
in the network
of rhythm and logic
and the images of fulfillment
are myriad distractions
the repetition
of life’s own contradiction
seduced by the lure
of perfection
it’s the production
of a crooked truth
and
yes
Scot
i think now
i’m ready to bleed