I write

the words take me somewhere,

away from here,

where I am all the time,

I can be standing nearby while everyone laughs,

and in a moment, with the right words,

they’ve all gone away.

This is my sacred ground I suppose,

and even that mystique,

that beautiful passion of solitude,

I risk with a shallow need,

that one that leaves me undefined.

Perhaps if rather than try to succeed,

I might un-succeed everything I ever believed is true,

and find,

that here is where I am again,

always wanting to search for this place,

where I glance,

I listen,

I seek some visual clarification,

and then,

suddenly my mind does take solace,

a sort of

melancholy vacation.

though there are those times I’d rather be happy

instead.