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
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