Love poets are terrible lovers

Standing in the middle
 of a past,
 all here is growth
 of something that barrels
 ahead.

I heard somewhat tense,
 cut by breeze and friend;
 what is perfect bestows trust,
 a fallacy of gravest concerns.

In the moment,
 it's never the same;
 it can be stuck,
 a blind wind;
 and Langley sits
 under sandwich
 in eyes of kryptos-

the mystery (she's fucked up);
 the chase (users never change);
 the math (you lost your chance);
 the funny part (she's mostly gay)

the sidewalks rivet
 if again a generation
 never knew a hopscotch;
 a writer would know
 the ink is dried up.