Where'd You Go?
God, the fevered children,
with power stable and wisdom (fabled):
a Ritalin fantasy of lightning therapy.
Beta silence dreads all things gold,
disturbing me and stirring streams
of faith or knowledge or lies.
I don't mind so much the traitors
as their sadness and their layers.
Is the buzzing reckless, resolute?
The schism born of wings is altitude
but I wish that distance was wonder
and I didn't wonder why there was distance.
The naked halo baking in your iris
knows more than me but less than bliss.
Caught by glinting neon lights, reflecting,
as if to tell your friends to start neglecting,
but all I want is to know, where did you go?