Book of Faces

So I get on to leave the non-sequitur
As it is a day of the week.
Figure I'll browse the rows and columns
And find the answer I'm looking for.
Lots of hyphenation or just new names
Denoting a waste of time and effort.
And possibilities present themselves
Except to the chickenshit.
So I pass them by and pick another.
Another in my column.
Doesn't mean anything more than a glimpse
Through a lens in someone else's hand.
Of course the one in my own is shaky
And only fit to capture others.
And being cheap the other is darkness
Unless I add a floodlight.
But in doing so I am blinded
Which may be the better course.
As I have been sitting here for hours
With dreams and visions in my head
And sagging hope in my hand.
Perhaps I should go somewhere else
Where they put on a show for your arousal.
At least then I know to expect nothing
In return for a moment of interest.
Or perhaps I should pull the plug
And crawl into bed and go to sleep.