It's the same idea being recycled, strange how it always returns to square one. Sitting there, so innocently. You can almost reach out, but hold back. Kicking yourself in the aftermath. Clenched tight, with wandering eyes. A poet's soul, while lacking central theme and concentration lay shattered on the floor. But I remain. Footsteps deep inside, while attractive eyes dart about once every so often. Holding the moment when text becomes reality and all else is relative. Grinding, twisting echoes, like pins to the senses sparking telepathic conversations leading a new feedback forward. And I remain. A familiar face set to a different tone. With clearness that speaks a beautiful story demanding to be read. But my lack of words holds me back. The situation breeds the opposition. We remain. Readiness hits the fan as ideas spark confusion, and a**ertiveness only serves as aggravation. The clock sets the stage. The piano plays on. Separate, we move on.