Wound Up, Found Up

Santa Cruz, 2005.

Wound up, found up,
you've nowhere to run,
you hit the line of 
demarcation right about the time
that tomorrow came, never promised

It was a try at one of several targets,
ever moving, a chance to catch some sites
and catch a ride on the ebb 
of your own dampened sight, 
already lost it, alright.

So quietly, sorrow never felt 
as good as when the fog crept 
through the valley and convinced 
you grey would stay forever––
charmed loneliness.

Those who would pick bones,
those who depart before the sun,
we who would fool you,
fool ourselves, fool you––
what you wanted was to know yourself

So hard. And in its dreaming wake
life, the first inch, the last to take.