Empty dreams leave the winding years behind us.
Each sun, each moon, comes and goes;
a god-bearing luminescence over all
the empty paths I’ve trodden.

Blossoms on the vine that strangles;
beauty masking surreptitious tragedy,
as masked remains this
distracted life.

I sway to the sound of stars and beats
distracted from the lowly feats
of complacency,
to which most slave away
around a box with moving pictures,
a window to a world they’ll not partake in.

It is a rush of awe that awakens me
to cut into the heart,
shivering with the anticipation
of a wind to melt this day’s last sun rays
into the oblivion of another star-specked night.

Such, with the passing of the swaying sounds of
stars and beats,
here, replete with intoxicated distractions,
I look at him and see a mirror
reflecting what I would become.

But one difference remains:

I understand the reflection is not the self;
the day is not just distraction.
The predilection for swaying sounds and beats
is the mystery complete.

To make that music feel as it was,
I shall go again to where I belong:

inward,
along the least empty paths I know.