A version of truth

Weathered
and utterly worn
like trying to attach a scab
to an open wound
flakes of reference
build a wall of crumbs.


Don't stop your falling,
only you are emotionally attached
to the nuances of your quiet failures.
Broken and ice cold whatever is time, is looped.
Again and again I hear a nothing, syn-phonetically
replicating a pathetic resurrection of fragmented recollection.

It's me or some new age diplomat,
who is for some reason, beyond subjectivity,
waiting for a whoever you are once more, again.
For whatever meaning other than, that's that and
the glossy cover story of my own, post, post history
I am unsightly overseeing as an indiscreet boredom.

The never ending story becomes strangely remixed.
A new versions stands proud with arrogant aggression,
lot's of different scenario's pave a road towards possibility
until the big bad wolf makes a costume from the batman.
All that is possible becomes a secondary commercial revolution
re-invented or repenting, either way the never end, is never ending.