Racing Comets

An almost intangible exhaustion, not because the fatigue is so strong because it is so abnormal,
Like strange parasitic references to moments lost into the vortex long ago.
Numbing paranoia to numbness as if feeling is the strangest feeling at all.
The exhaustion like a freight train nightmare finally resting on the open eyelids of relief
The dwindling sanity of understanding from the kings and queens, democratic royalty and meritocratic victories
Which are what in the mind's eye?  Like beautiful reflections into the iris - they belong only to whomever possesses the flowers
The madness of a cut rose, bleeding palms and caressing rose petals - the goals of the moment to torments the senses
Yes, exhaustion.
But not a real exhaustion no.  For I can describe this.  The name.  It has one.  It may make of many words but this is tiresome.
I'm not ascended from the coal mine or descended from the coal miner
My grandfather long ago ran across the fiction lines and across obelisks of sand  - those torturous natural walls that dare someone to test their mettle
This is not the exhaustion of a woman pushed to her limits, a prenatal notion of a birthing fatigue that no man grasps.
This is not an unending love that torments my soul and titilates my friends from the reckless nature of romance.
This is just exhaustion.
I run through mummified moments of expression and tombs and tombs of individual though.
I burst through the simple victories and dwell on lonely planets or vacation dinners from the comfort of my own internets tunneling in screens and screens of more surface area.
The depths of my understanding are forgotten biological principles - where people turn cold in the night office air and air conditioned routines.
This is a weary eyed, sweaty toothed mad man and he begs for a blanket.  Kicking, Scremaing and in the tired tired light he will never be free
A seizure of seizing, frozen assets capitalized by those demonic Wastes Oftime.  They scream from each and every corner of civilization - dirty denizens hell bent.
To lie down is to let the winds swirl across the panorama of a ceiling, the bed tied to the certainties of the day and world whirling by above as it never existed.
That is the the exhaustion
A running lap of effort to track down the sun, the moon and the gods themselves while they laugh at the flailing arms and terrible form
The sprinting nature of looking for answers in all the places they won't be found -  human errors in judgement and failing to trust the nomadic love of ourselves
Looking deep inside is a proportion so twisted with self-loathing that the mind years to be distant
Racing to be on the horizon before the horizon exists, like wrestling the sun into submission and beaming its light to shine across your golden medals
Those are the races we dream of winning, the races into eternity where we think we see a light at the end
A never catching
A never up
A never here
A never there
A never never.