Once more, the evening falls through.

Once more, the evening falls through. Once more, try not to think of you. Once more, the blog that I will pen Will tell the story over, once again. The Endless Waltz. Weaving, turning, moving, halting ever so briefly to spin around. Wheeling, crashing, dancing, clashing, the cycle begins, the cycle can't end. Or can it? Waxing poetic until I am sick. Sick of myself, sick of the not-quite-problems I grow, stock and shelve. It can't reach me, these feelings. Teach me these reelings, peeling me backwards outside of my skin. Softly my core glows, softly I sing and the chorus begins. Wailing and sobbing, ebbing and throbbing, brooming (not mopping) the gloom that's in store. Cures ever seeking, tears ever leaking, words ever speaking in vain. No sense to come in out of the rain, even on sunny days. Sunlight is waning, moonlight is gaining, constant refraining of natural moods. Crudely, I swallow. Humbly, I wallow. Whistle, I follow you down like a dog. One surface reaching (with temporal breaching), no hope of beseeching you; no, not at all. Banding my news in autopilot cruise, how can I choose what's beyond me? Enter: I greet you, awkwardly meet you, never entreat you or calm myself down. Frown while I'm pacing, the brooding disgracing is sometimes replacing my hunkered-down hope. Planes can be shifted, or millions be gifted, and hearts can be lifted (in tattle-tale tellies). But some are mistaken, desires forsaken, emotions are shaken; the ritual drown. If this made any sense to you, Visiting hours are ten to two. Mark Burton Thursday, June 15th, 2006, 1:09 AM