Sunday, August 31, 2014

Blanked

Blanked
Words dribbling like a man aged from thirty to ninety in six seconds
His mouth wrinkled over a taught jawline incapable of flection
The angle splays minute

Sounds garble in the guttural chamber
Like the dirt from the grave is already mixing in the dusty waves
As attempts at language fecklessly rise
He knows no matter the combination of alphabet

She will make no retort
He is responding like a letter inevitably lost at sea
Which if ever found will be read by an entirely different being
Than the woman he cared for

She flicked a message like an arsonist oily ragged bottle through the window
Tires peeling about who she is, what she needs
Freedom like a mandate to contraband shackles
Like what we could be

Fucking plural pronouns drenched in flammable assumptions
He was happy just reading together on the couch
Like some bizarre form of heaven to Fahrenheit 451
A man cannot exist between an artist and her darkness

In the comfort of isolated sanctuary
No one can pull you out there, expects you to perform, show up to their event
What they want you to be, between waking up and slumber
The decisions are never kidnapped

He knows the longing to sit in a room with that marshmallow pillow of alone
The sweetness of non-judgment of not having to be what you felt you never could be
Or wanted to be and resented the idea that someone made you think for a second
You were less than for not wanting or capable

He knows the battle; the staring between an alone and a God
Cursing both and incapable of embracing either
He knows trying to begin again and a what-the-fuck sunrise
Batting a head screaming for midnight to make this all go away into hiding

As if life is an inescapable orb of self one must abide
Attempting to grow, seeds sprouting disappointment, regret, better not have tried
The season never wound its tendrils out from winter    
Pretending human connection was optional 

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