Regular Melancholy

In these 8 months
I've left my iron on twice
I never wear a tie,
well, almost never.
Days pass, and
at night I stare
at the stars everyday
they remind me
of home, only
there are so
many more. Now
I am careful
not to step in
swampy rice
fields, the
rich yards which
I wish were
football fields.
I told myself
I wouldn't miss
the smells, or
the tastes. It's
spring, only my
mind whispers
the hint of
October, the
dying grass,
winter's gentle
night kiss, or
summer's fading,
shifting, scream.
The hay, the
pumpkins, as I
lie in their shade,
they are a ghost
that floats near
and behind my
river's gaze, so
danger wary,
no... weary, I
think, from
the tear of
the daily, the
forever old,
yet renewed
by the paper
and transition
of heat.
 but
in a hard many
years, few
scents I know well
shoot through my
heartstrings quick
as a butcher
through butter. The
wonderful, wide
world, exposed and
preserved, it
reminds me, haunts
my orange dreams,
Whispery desire
to run again,
forever upon cases
bricks loud about
my stinging feet
driven quicker yet
still. Vanity, the
long ability not
to think, but to
want, and I
caught between
shattered tin
panels of chromatic
greed, naught but
the reds and silver.
A wish to forever
cover our faces,
Beijing air or
Sisyphean sorrow
or better yet, that
I would be better yet.
And want to return
to it. So I stare
at gloved hands
waiting and dressing
myself once anew.
The spark of
divine, polarity of
time and words.
Time will yet
heal, or stay
curse, as we
yet have not
seen the end
times, or the
silent nights. Think
very closely if
that desire is
but an illusory
trial itself. I
will ask myself
again and again.