Jack's Twisted Kingdom
turning from that rapid convalescence of unmarred air,
I've surfaced it would seem, only to rise on a feckless
pier, wrought of sharpened sticks and coarse weather.
it should be noted, that in times past, it would seem
that memory is not what it was. only what it could have
been, albeit immersed in melancholic soup.
the point being, the tines being, that nothing has quite
worked out, rather in an suggestive and morose tenor,
pitched out among the crowd.
the Din, seems to be thrashing against my skull, beating
it's out tune, wrenching and cording itself around whats
left of my self conscious effort to stave off, what could
only be described as, perhaps, the end of the road.
what the end game is, however, I don't know. the horizon
line seems to be crowded in by shafts, maybe spears, locked
in a holding pattern so to avoid travel. but thats really
what the crux of it is. to travel, to arrive.
and where have I arrived? no where, in particular.