Unfinished, there was more to this point

a tremor of intent towards an endless pursuit
left to lay in the sun-drained streets
in the glow of the unflattering light the asphalt has to offer
scattered visibility
the fallacy of direction presented as a well-organized essay
with a harrowed sense of loss
and an under-appreciated, antiquated understanding of imperialism
to deem the world worthy of being rebuilt,
retied, communal, a transcendental concentration,
fascination with socialistic unity, sympathy
a crop of wrinkles effectively allocated
bartered by or with those who hold weakness high
emancipate oneself from an illusory home,
a controversial thought,
a continent full of filth
the start, restart of collective recognition
conformity- or not- consensus- or not-
a ubiquitous feeling melting through our cochleas
straight to the blood stream
straight to the head
indigenous and predetermined by a gentle,
invisible hand served with ill-proof
the Prime Minister of the atmosphere
domesticated with free-flowing etiquette

and a long lasting empathy,
drained from me,
stained me, abandon
in absolute authority
stood, regarding me as subservient,
an underlying cause for all things short of extraordinary
such a wide array of explanations,
shrugged off with skepticism, hesitation, mere observation

fuck..this...

find me a cockroach bound to the highway,
a vehicle bound to the floor
rupturing thoughts hang as icicles from the trellis
outside my window, people, things, and places excreting movement,
treasures, monumental, concert motions, behaviors
the actions inside consist of regression, repression, disaster
where-after there was nothing left
in response to the alterations, motives, gestures...
a desolate plain above my chest, within my chest, surrounds it
if i were to set sea tonight
if i were to set sea
at the height of my resistance
i couldn't find a way
shelve my intentions, storing them at bay

scald me with neglect
find the one last chance nailed to your walls
where a breathtaking encounter wasn't designated
where the orchids won't bloom any longer
the cathedral ceilings with syllables tacked to it
the infrastructure made to collapse
the inside of an ordinary anatomy
no longer willing to bear the fight

if i were to set sea tonight
the lights ordained with wizardry
the masts disguised in prophecy
port and starboard adorned with appraised, threadbare sides
ready for the crests to take hold