The Second Confession

funny how a house with one person in it
still feels empty, when sitting awake
carving out the colorful morning with a hankering
for a more fulfilling something than coffee
and more practiced company than
my tools for conversation; the fibers
of every-moment sincere-full searing
language. i cannot fathom, nor do I wish
to keep trying to, defining this smoldering bruising
brightness that numbs interior brass mirroring and
my tired other soliloquies, my automaton alliteration;
my always please-be-in-control sensation.
It hasn't even been a year. Look
at my eagerness. I offer you the palm filled,
sugar and light as consolation or
reconcilliation, I don't remember which
word is the right sword for cutting through
all those strings attached, It feels more real than
so many hundred years sleeping, the forgotten
abandoned things fields of green and gold,
first kisses and how they taste,
i wander through them
provoking all kinds of obliteration.