Why. When I-

breaking out of rhythm

some times
through the night
over and over,
over midnight

the silence sighed
over the thoughts
of endless endings
and eaves troughs

that tremble out my window
when the pittled meteors hit
in a cold soaking bellow
over storm sweeping pits

but that
is besides the point
when you strip back the beauty
of the ripple and quaint
dream I’ve dreamed
I realize it’s not real
and I’m sick of the rhythm
why does everything have to rhyme
and match
and mean
and matter
when I can do

whatever

I

want