Ungodly Deep.

Trust and believe, the total and complete –
lack of any kind of silver lining,
in the fuck-of-a-mess that’s buried me,
is hardly lost on the cost of things;
it’s a game that runs perpetually –
it’s a death march to most certain defeat,
a defeat that will find me, inevitably;
a Speed Metal drummer keeps beat, accordingly,
that hammers my chest with anxiety,
welds to the ankle bones of both my tired feet:
anchors that will sink the likes of me quickly,
kicking and screaming until I’m sleeping peacefully,
a slow-motion fall to the trench of the sea –
like a feather pushed out of a high-speed Jet-stream,
like a bowed ballerina after tip-toed dancing,
a deep, dark blue silence that calls me from deep;
faces of creatures swim in, brimmed with curiosity,
to glimpse the resistance of my sinking body,
to the darkness of what’s unknown to me;
the end of my descent comes too finally –
the anchors have found me a permanent thing,
and so it goes that it may just very well be:
that all the hurt and guilt and all the years of misery,
brought me to a resting place so dark, it’s ungodly,
to counter in death the heights life has shown to me.

The Rest Of Them.

Remember how I understood you?

When your mouth was full,

Of weed smoke and jelly beans,

And the rest of the people,

Had no idea what you’d said?

Remember how I came to get you?

When your city was burning,

You tried to sleep through to death,

And the rest of the people,

Asked not after your well-being?

Remember those stupid promises?

Made to each other like idiots,

How they’ve filled my heart with regrets,

And the rest of the people,

Walk by me holding hands and laughing.

Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
blowing through all the lies.

A reacquainting,
with the shadows left behind,
as those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to all I escaped from hopefully,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Lynch Mob.

I walked back to the crowd of people waiting,
they watched my approach, expectantly –
mouths hung open from the truth they’d just seen –
dirt shaken up from my heavily dragging feet,
they all stood like simpletons and stared right at me;
my chest was on fire and my lungs couldn’t breathe,
I stumbled and lurched, too shocked to believe,
I tried to cry out, but no sound would leave me –
“Praise Jesus!”, cried one of them –
and the whole crowd began to repeat;
it took me some moments to find my footing,
before I realized that they were praising Jesus for me,
“No, it wasn’t Jesus…” I said as I pulled the noose free,
the lynch mob had left me for dead on the branch of a tree,
but as soon as they rode away to report my defeat,
I cut myself down and found myself free –

Roaming the Hallways.

 

These are things:
hidden meanings;
soundly maintaining
in between –
the likes of you and me.

The same goes for anybody:
structured similarly;
that functions remotely
close to –
any likeness to Yours Truly;

It becomes impossible to see:
your side of anything;
my heart does not hear or speak
the obsolete –
language of a Hollow King.

I ride lost in loss and strife:
the chaos of a star’s dying light;
the haunting of a dead man’s life
but why –
must you roam the hallways at night?

When I cannot comprehend:
the commands that your faded voice sends;
across the emptiness of the long-forsaken
echoes within –
the spaces and places of the ill-spirited gardens.

I cannot answer then:
a single one of a hundred questions;
the dialect has tumbled over the edge of extinction
you win –
but a world where you’re happy is hard to imagine.

Sinking Me.

Have you ever felt its slice? …
Never seen the flash of light? …
Weren’t you there –?
a winding road up –
to absolutely nowhere…
indulge me with your disguise;
who is to say
stupid or wise? –
I’d made up my weary mind,
treading circles in square boxes
has been suiting you just fine;
I got up off my knees,
walked away
no goodbye –
I haven’t the energy, or time;
My darling, it’s gotten old,
tired and spent
like a tooth filled with gold;
soft enough to give with force,
and allow its form to shape new mold,
but too hardened at the edges,
scarred deeply
by tragedy –
carved in her skin in big bold;
the slice that you refuse to see,
the load you aren’t willing to pull
in turn with me,
You’re sinking me.