Boxes and Flames

somehow the boxes got moved from here to there left over from some holiday fare, snickers and sassy flares on a late Sunday eve you tell me you love me you tell me you care lies! what does it mean when one speaks in the moment swilling promises of grandiose schemes words that make magic actions nothing more than some impotent dream you tell me you love me you tell me you're there what? don't bother me with intentions when actions are limp priceless reaction from those left to sit on the sidelines, still smirking swatting horseflies and spit we don't roll that way stuck here in the hay left out in winter it's Monday, austere...