Fred Aiken Writing

all the people I was hoping to meet

sometime in my life,

decided to die long before I was ever born,

so I guess I’ll have to talk to the walls,

and hope no one notices I can’t see them,

before I get locked up

explosions that look like soda blasting off through the midnight sky

as citrus drips from veins made from vanilla dreams

caressing unguarded moments to be shared alone

off the shore of some isolated island in the middle of nowhere

as countless invisible particles help define the known and unknown

hiding in the distance

coming with all the baggage never checked

because it’s carry-on,

and no one thought it’d hide the world’s secret shooting through the ozone

living in a manifest destination on the right,

so long the map spots the next turn

into the cul-de-sac,

pulled back, further,

seething fog engulfing all the windows

in an endless night,

sleepless fights, punched into memories from above,

below, each side, and wherever that sound is coming from,

let’s not dally,

let’s not dilly,

time to catch the moment in bed without an answer for its infidelity