whoever you are,

this likely is for you.

i wish i could have been

the company i believe you deserved,

and this i say without self-pity

without forgiveness

or fear.

i fumbled with my life, but

it was never for a lack of love,

but selfish whims

and my own blood in my eyes

that spurred me on

and made me a raging fool;

a feverish, blind, 

staggering sleepwalker

swinging his fists.

for this, i am sorry.

without pretense, and 

for what it's worth.

if i could undo the fabric of time, then

weave a better tapestry

i'd do it in a moment, but

that is not

the way of things.

i am humbled now, diminished

by the ridiculous anatomy

of my tribulations, and

i do not believe these words will do any good either,

but writing abides in my nature

so i will leave them here for some time, 

and then they'll follow away,

which is the way of things.

far beneath the waves

there's a vast old forest,

thick with milky brine and

the debris of bygone affections.

somewhere within it, there's a chapel;

when the bell rings and

tears through the mist,

those who hear it

nod their heads and mutter

their secret supplications.

as it happens,

the Brine is not

for the living;

it is for

mourning, and for

disabusing oneself 

of this life,

of its chimeras.

this much i know,

that - if you find yourself there,

you did not go on purpose.

you must've been thrust

into a current, or else you

woke up there one day,

in the slow blink of

a weary eye. 

gather your pieces,

you castaway captain.

wrap them together

in these rags of yours.