My Noir Apotheosis

my banal original left ordinary impressions on the surface of your eyes; stanzas you couldn't get out of your mind playing carpe diem chasing your memories romantically while you held fast to recognized patterns, you'd say anything with a cigarette hanging from your lip: tempus fugit those wisps accent your spent look; something frozen, dead winter, caught by the Sun, melted, a haze of steam rising nostalgically with redolent regret "We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin