we run up the hill. so sure of ourselves.
puppets on time's stiff strings.
chewing on all the knots
that we've created.
eventually, we tumble down it.
negotiating the truth at every bruise.
snakes with paper fangs
selling their expired venoms.
time and time again,
we reach the apex.
only to discover that
the bucket we carry is full of holes.
no more delicate lies upon which to perch our expectations.
only the stout edges. and the insipid corners with which to fabricate our maps.
the truth is both a thief and an ally. but we never know which one it'll be at any given interesection.
a little spit to soften the bandages. and then we're ready to bleed again.
they write on the walls. the muted screams of perpetual victims.
the world is still loud long after we've forgotten how to hear.
drowning in trust's dubious math. temporary villains climb into our beds.
shouting so loudly that we almost believe them.
 |
| by alcoholicpoet.com |
simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.
clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.
her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.
the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.
the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.
that is our strength and our burden.
severed jaws.flaunt their fractured words.
choices. their bright alarm. the prison of if. soft and sticky.
her crayons on empty paper. her voice. dull blades and thick bruises. the anatomy of trust overwhelms. wolves and woodsmen. and rotten picnics. the autumn. virulent ghosts. spoil her surrender.
there's only light because i've forgotten the darkness. bald seams on the throat of the universe. beg to bleed. the cripple of how. in sparse raindrops. draws useless treasures in broken glass. pauses stab. punctuating the loss. befriended by the abyss. the edge coughs. succumbs to the sickness.
the hours find gravity in strokes and nods. the stubborn diseas that is life. eventually resolves to needles and tourniquets. the blade yawns. and effortlessly swallows the clown.
the future whimpers. terrified by the questions. the numbers tremble. more scab than skin.
familiar monsters. grow comfortable in their frowns.
just the bridge for as far as I can see it. just this flesh. drawing its awkward maps. to all the places we'll never go.
waking up still in the dream.stealing the exit from aging ghosts.
she uses her time preparing the beginnings. and the ends. what's in between she leaves to chance. she wears the moon in drapes and syringes. a choke for the reluctant drug. a chaos of seams. in an ocean of thread.
the heavy colors refuse her. the round dials are impossible to grip. an epiphany of ignorance consumes her. as she waits in line for her lottery ticket.
folds in the hours. stern buckets boast their sand. the weight of the precipice. laughs as she loses her balance.
she's old now. she notices. she's weak too, she suspects. as those empty kisses brush her lips.
life is more machine than man. much more engine than it is skin. a trembling sieve. a flickering bulb. everything uncertain.
her stubborn ghosts. finally pause to listen. but there are no more words.
you'll see me there, but it's someone else. a goblin imitating the mirror. a stranger trying on my skin. ignoring the wrinkles. excited by the darkness. searching for alone in a hurricane of faces. desperately remembering the quiet edge as the loud one approaches.
you'll see the tar. the dense portal of silence that sits between us. i've been searching for the map. all my life. still haven't found it. voices like blank paper. taunting me to read what was never there. i try to remember the world i knew before. the inside. all jelly and vinegar. thick and sharp stabs to the senses. and their virulent amnesia.
we'll trace the lines separately. wondering how they could ever meet. people. distant thunder. pouring rain. a preposterous flood for me to drown in. the distant echo of the margins. the hollow poetry of my disease. scratching on the glass. digging in the fire. content to burn.
you'll meet the broken doll and wonder how she walks. you'll talk to the empty chair and marvel at the shadow it casts.
simple stitches threading through the eye of time. hollow numbers. and their servant skin. choosing each madness with open fists. the trail softens. the blood dries. this body is the coffin. time is the grave.