Thursday 12/26/2013 12:35:00 AM

it might be over. it might have only just begun. a scar on the wind. a thread in time. same puzzle. different solutions.

the obvious chemicals. the slick slope that they ride. the absent miracles. holes in the world. steadily deflating us.

yellow lights cut the darkness. red ones make it weep. and the white ones. they just whisper. telling stories much too hard to hear.

the magic has its moment. if only for a blink. and then its over. we're all thieves. stealing different pieces of the same puzzle.

the angles shift. the numbers betray. little girls becoming old women.

the seldom edges. the trembling paper. a cruel mercy of indifference.

the broken stream. the soiled motive. an apocalypse of flesh. in a blizzard of loneliness.

words are anvils.

skin is treason.

scars make their art. in withering flesh. time paints its folds and creases. wordless lessons in humility.

a quiet hum. a simple path. feels for the the edge. seeks the descent. swaying uneasily with the fractured resonance of souring ghosts.

blood and lessons strike their stones. the distorted mechanics of touch. much too sober to know. how much it hurts.

choice is a funnel. a straw house. surrouned by hungry wolves. tomorrow stutters and wheezes. a bitter cloud of hope and ash. still  hot, though the flame is dead.

it burns. it begs. hungry wounds. ripe with scabs.

for the picking.

Conversations with the walls always end the same.

Borderline said...

Powerful stuff. I write poetry too, but it's not as intense.

This reminds me of my darkest moments, when I'm alone in my room, and my mind is just going, going, going. And it is like having conversations with the walls. They're the only ones there to listen.

softermaniac said...

i try. thanks for noticing.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.