Sombrenatory

In the salt of your surface
account was made for the lost lover
who even coming to senses
after taking steps away
first aloof aloft on the roof
at night, without tears
or maudlin songs of watermills
working with only the sound of chains and gears
under a clouded night
stars behind the wide white sash

a stroke meant for number became
morality for loss whose remedy was
disappearance. this was an amassing
of avoidant personalities' weapon of reason
being withdrawal.

It didn't matter how much
music i dug in the concrete of
catacombs still i was unable to
lose my love and tenderness in the crowd. 

I always hated being Cloy Roy.
It's like a hat I have said I will get rid of
still in my hands.

I can only say I miss you as fact.
My years also self counsel to
be brief though all I want is
the repose of rivers in
conversation with the life
on the banks. Brevity here
is only silence so one
can walk alone and ask
quiet questions when one must.

Where can I loose my loss jams?
Lock it up in a poem, in all
activities until something gives
and I can be candid in person.
This may never happen here
but as an idea we think it cracked
cloudmill riversafe hatacombcatacomb.