it’s the things
left out
the words
unsaid.

the plans made
with no prior notice
the hidden
agenda.

these
make the wind feel
strangely artificial
as the things
once thought
known
were proven
myth
by the emptiness
of doubt.

another daydream
cast
into the ashtray
of abstract
longing.

of all
the four letter
words
none
cut so deeply
as lies.

letting fingers
trail
in the saline river
of unshed tears
to the ever flowing
falls
of insolence.