Is There A Way?

Each glare is a bullet riddling my chest
Holes pour blood and thoughts
Drowning my thirsty boots of old.
My chests are all unlocked and open
No buried treasure maps remain
As I flirt with new beginnings.
No plate holds my food
No cup carries any design
And I have no leather chair.
Faces and hands sweep by
Tossing each other about
And I see no end to the street.
Walking, no world turns
Turning, no path is there
Fearsome cliffs of irony.
Standing, the scenes spin
Dripping letters from pens
And I'm blinded by reason.
Perhaps I need the blood…
Maybe the chests should close…
Faces may lead the way…
One flower sits upon my table
Blooming she sings
Perhaps, that is the answer.