Dead of Night

Shoulder on shoulder men like us meet in the haze, the blurs, the phases that from an outside surface area where second hand karma would exist and peak. Holstered in limbo eye lids hover transmit coded chemical emotions from uniformed to uniform the desire is sealed but not for keeps. Passing from one another locked in attics brow eyed and patient the fear of being found is steep from awkward communication masks like ours keep. Honesty the best kept secret from decade to decade we check it under lock and key doorways erode and passion from youth fleets. Hope as ever does the focus lie but instead is dispersed like vapor hazy blurred between the lines it's never congruent the way that our dreams leap and distort the waltz through summers where we endure endless shooting sprees. But rather tell a tale of buried passion where the faces change but hushed lovers could meet but simmered, and split connections rush cold from unanswered questions from people we have yet to meet. We hope for the best that someday those doors would open and the fresh air would sparkle the dust from the secrets that we keep. Sweeping in like April wind from the bluer skies we all knew from kids as we dreamed where those fault lines would come together and share common threads so our lives can be sutured and finally become discrete. Uncovering the people we could have been if our paths we more and more neat but wither in seconds as those rails do not stop in eternal matrimony but rather are more or less the dry heat that pant after from under our lungs to the shame we bare as we hug our knees. Endless shame swept away from the inner beings loins girded to brace the day of never having to face these hushed feelings, or gnash the teeth of lovers we would never have to see again. Swept away long desires never tasted and never seen but floating from dirt to dirt and flowing to the decoration of buried passions that bled dust and passed away in the night.