My feelings on it are sticky, they linger as thick milky paste would, should it reconsider and refuse to attach to what brought it into existence in the first place, I gently sway until I am sure I hear a song, the lyrics are muddled by distance and time, as they slide down the chute that leads to how I nod, they are forced to wait for recognition, held up by an earlier flight, that still waits for its belongings to be claimed, some have been delayed until in comfort they are no longer dizzy, spinning on the shiny carousel that is always                   well manicured, in constant motion, it will never hide the reflection or ignore the outline of a worn face, travel occurs within and it always wears itself out, back and forth I help to make the connection, sometimes I want to blend my all, but only when I am completely smooth, the parts will have to lubricate themselves, should I touch, I would only settle that which spins around, the motion must be sustained, even if much is unable to hold on, my body is a misplaced bog of rhythm, all that does not depart, it cannot cling or reconsider, firmly pressed together its union is what I long to feel, stuck within a rambling                prose, waiting for a glimpse of the thickening distance and a punctuation of the attaching time.

Waking late, I look for an excuse to wake at all. The unrefuted is a warm blanket and a soft bed. The metaphysical is uncertain and often times unkind. But I never refuse an offer,
especially when it is free. And while the next round will eventually be mine to buy…
right now, it is someone else’s burden to wear. The more I need to rest, the more
redundant I become. Aspirations are no longer sharp, the words “ready and set” trail off…dull and evanescent…like a spirit forced to linger…when all it wants…is to simply run and hide. I like simple too, which is why I seduce in the company of influence. Carefully peeling back the covers, I afford the watchman with something that must pass his time. His
purpose is tied to mine, his difference is what I know…and will never follow thru. I am
wicked for those who pull me up. Their hands are soft and welcoming, which makes it
easier to let go and fall into my way. Eventually they will grow tired of reaching, the oars will return to the ship, the seas will rise to embrace a future course. One where the tide will hold no grudge, its current will no longer seek umbrage from the lethargy of despair. As I will steadfastly remain… the sullen bed will bruise my back, the blanket will be too warm. In the dawn…the excuse I have become will have to shoulder all the blame.

I would very much like to post more…but the upload refuses to stay awake.
Is that a flaw in the mechanical…or a harbinger of that which is at stake?