Patterns

Sometimes these patterns (I love so much)
Haunt me.
Insisting that trees should grow in perfect rows,
Straight lines and even numbers, superimposing design,
Four red cars on either side of one white,
Seven heads and five eyes (yet always
I pin the mouth too low
A symptom of constant sadness, perhaps)
Caught up in their precision and predestined order.

A rendezvous with two a.m. again --
Long sleepless nights and mornings
Dreamt away. Come back.
Rehashing old stories, reliving old woes,
And in hopeless thoughts of unsure futures,
As if destined to spend the wee hours
Alone.
Counting. The years, the regrets, the failures.

Staring at the fixture with two of three bulbs --
A reminder of the inability to control
The way the dust falls, and where the spider goes.
I want to trace my hand upon the wall but
Shadows rise and fall, no time to wait, to see, to create.
And this chaos theory begging for some pattern in pigeons,
Nihilist world begetting nihilism in faithless hearts.

If only the void could be filled with these patterns,
Haunting my dreams and waking hours,
No more the meaninglessness of it all but
A forced perfection and
Ghostly beauty in every thing.