Apophenia Telegraphy

(the ink's love for the paper)

Interesting, I had this conversation last night... seriously.

It circled crippled chimes where violent children filled empty stocking rhymes
They kept strict count of yesterday – always attempting to calculate their deaths
What's become of the children?
Were they right? Were they wrong?
Who's to blame when even the atrium of wrongness goes wrong?

Breathe in,
Breathe out,
Relax,
and Start from the beginning…

It wasn't a midsummer's dream, closer to fall

And rise, from a sleep, witnessed the top down
Sparkle red paint surrendered abstract fate
Yet the radio said "no one's to blame"
Felt like the longest mile home

Interesting, I've had the same conversation before… seriously.

Sitting on a bed, with a wall of mirrors, caught my reflection

Through a teenager's substance riddled tears

What's become of my innocence?

Standing near the glass I feel the sun warm my face

As I close my eyes I welcome the rush that stands me on edge
Timeless and beyond conceptual union,
Where did I place that memory?
Must've been a million miles misplaced

Breathe in,
breathe out,
relax,
and Finish the story…

Yes, of course, please allow me to begin by counting the orchestrated accidental ~

By David Powers
August 22nd, 2007