on nights such as this:
on plants and dirt, not towns,
my most common thoughts,
among starlit grass and wistful hints of past:
a liquid trail of salt down that haunting skin,
consist of nothing but a litany of wishful thinkin':

hoping stars align and not all words want truth
and that, with looks such as yours, lips up - as plants to light -
an oath must, out of duty to truth, affirm through action;

an affirmation on your lips too soon, "to put down any doubt of truth"
(and thusly bringing as many as might, without words, find mort)

but unsung, hanging in mind and not air, diffusing through brain and not rooms,
stopping only at id's last wall - just short of cognizant thought,
found only as instinct, gut's signal of wrongdoing

but grass and moon and light and company mix not oft
to construct a backdrop for thoughts,
so optimism holds a coup, banishing thoughts of us two to islands far away which gulp rain from clouds full with blood-dark misgivings:
shards of thoughts from days black as night,
and masks, with dawn, don shadows to form familiar formations of truth and a lack
of which is wont to win out

long walks back to doors with locks
and windows, blinds;
blinding truants from wrath forthcoming - a rich crop from rich sowing
and stopping for nothing is this cyclic action, by instinct, not thought
not quick, but hard fought, and sick kicks from sick licks corrupt sick kids
as blood runs thick (but not thick as acid, hydroxic, and no, it's not toxic)

but i am.

A/N: anything jump out at you as odd about this work? hint: it's missing a particular char.
to find out what distinguishing trait this work has in comparison to most, go to chap. two
and scroll down. (chap. two is mostly a blow-by-blow of my thoughts on this work).