From hotels in the middle of the night I'm calling
you out. To candles cling tentative flames,
but they burn just the same,
just in case you forget. Sick in the silt of the strangest
taste I've hated today. Still something sings within
the vein, as I forget to fail,
I forget to complain. How much more can we stand to
say before clouds complain?
Soaked to that critical stage with the overdressed
words of the well-meaning vague.
How much will the Leitmotiv sway to compensate for
our fallow-yet-vigorous play on the century's take
on the lived-but-yet-named?
Hold out, because this moon is twice as good when you
see through a year of nights what you thought you understood.
Set out because this haze is bound to wane.
It can no longer attempt to hide the will of third-class
seats on tommorrow's trains.