The words that set the pace in motion
all about the capitalization
or the lack thereof
and beautiful frustrations
And the nearly deadly
futile patience
I bared wasted, there
while shivering
and withering in snow
Or in the cold
of sunlight
now I know the taste
of something like
a sultry
waste
of innocence
Though no-one here
is probably as innocent
as any of us
would like to think we are
by now
I love my rhythmic ranting
since it has a certain tragic feel
and sound
And I love the fact that I own nothing of it
now that it is set
inside the spectrum
of my love of family
and yet
lives
nevertheless
relentless
and unbound