Morning Glory

Wooden, wretched heart

beat intrinsically, 

frivolously, against my iron insides

persuasion doesn't help you stop 

won't make you yield to the currency of egotism 

You have no kin,

resting warmly, in utero,

never to be set free of your childish tendencies,

loosely swaying in the wind, 

the seamless borders of imagination 

fraying at the edges, 

greeting a pyromaniac of the mind at the door 

where the incendiary 'casualties' fly. 

we'd lent you a hand without any prior review,

your references certainty disagree, 

and I was hardly reluctant to cast you a line

without regard, without anything in mind,
sending absolute nonsense this way,
resting on the currents of the strings that make up space,
cutting through, and paraphrasing reality as utter idiocy.
borrowing countless lovers and throw-aways
from innocent, unfulfilled men who weep
as seen in the corners of my eyes.

you'd greet any nameless person as if it were framework,
ingrained within your limitations are lines and verses,
verses and stanzas of impressive events and speech
sopping with didactic manner,
thrusting condescension against my hips,
and into yours.

you find yourself wondering,
"where is the beginning, where is the bathroom?",
"where can I find the reason? Johnny said he found it this morning."
No one hears the tree, no one sees the cat.

a hair of the dog kind of morning
and instead, you let yourself lose.