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The Romantic Trapped Today being a good day to live. Air light on my face, heavy on my spirit. Too many books and not enough wars. Or the other way around Finds me spread on my bed, twisted flat With shards of sublime light opening doors to dead pathways. Traveled to much or not enough, only the fallen ashes of those who still breathe are aware of the truth. Skipping school, forsaking knowledge for the experience of glory. The divine chase that leads me everywhere without going anywhere. Stuck in the present as the present moves along without me. Seeing everything as more than whole, so I write of the moon: A crystallized sliver destined to find its reflection in July�s shallow waters. or of a rock: Idle but strong. Shattered over time in a fashion reminiscent of my cracked faith in hope. Freshly cut grass that clings to bottoms. Wind that cuts through the fingers, yet draws no blood. Watching a freshly sharpened pencil go dull as my hand speeds to keep up with grace. A blessed and damned fate it is to live Above the earth . . . Feet walking on the thin layer between soil and sky, made up of neither dream nor reality. Am I the only one who sees the flower bloom? I am the only one who sees the flower die. Residing in this gap, pulled thin by poetry and science. Hating both of my masters. Unfettered to float free. Grounded to a kite like a lost romantic in the Fall with cider in hand. A high tide without waves, flooding these wings, soaked with apathetic tears of those who can�t see. Do they have a clue? Or does its absence make them wise? So it begins, continues � ends. Tomorrow being a good day to die.