I am bestowing my presence upon the outside world wondering around this book-infested box.

The wind rapes the trees of their leafs, tossing them astray among the cool rotted surface of deep decay.

Barren limbs seek to embed themselves in the heated metal of street lamps that cast ghastly shadows about their feet. The warmth of the light screeches in protest of this invasion.

The hushed murmur of distant tires treading asphalt is but the sound of waves swishing against rocks blended to tiny bits that crunch and form beneath our feet temporary fossils.

I am trying to be a poet with out succession.

These words are nothing but meaningless phrases of thoughts that cannot be taught.

A concussion of minced analogies.
A misinterpreted longing for meaning evaluated correctly.