Lines

lines suppose, lines oppose

lines sometimes is color of your skin

still, stark, they then fall onto this scathed mind

and it rushes and gushes to those umpteen places

of highs and lows

and far below this conscious

where we once met and as goes the further story

at places where we fitted in closely

we were content

or were we most scared of the questioning oblivion

how sparks flew, so blinded it became

and the rush

to observe the sins of this wrinkling skin

the days of which became nights

and the whole reel of real that passed

to that moment of sprinting blood to heart

why I wonder now if I could only reverse the clock

and feel the numbness of beats

only to once again be young and a desperate fool again.