|a thought on everything in a simple mind in but a minute.|
blessed faces on broken down posterboard
lining a road with the carcass of dreams
given up tires leave a body quite lonely
and rusted shut doors break escape
from a tightening chest.
what was expected from lingering voices
and tear-covered pages of lines never read
a trunk filled with folded up notes
and lists of hopes and wishes forgotten to melt
in summer heat unchecked
a letter in the mail with directions to always
where you went was beyond the point
two stars to the left and straight on til morning
was just a moment too far for me
but morning was far from the horizon's deathbed
and the light from the moon reflected wishful thinking
youth flitted with thoughts of a trip to forever
the promise of fresh air on lungs long wasted
started thoughts long covered by grey stones
the greatest let down of a dream to fly
was a rusty old car headfirst
in a tree
tired of lovely poems and broken bones
lost hours on wooden floors that twist in knots.
the paint is falling off in little chips
as the violets turn into a sheltered pot
of bad smelling decay.
i wonder how plants thrive off water and if, perhaps,
the blood i no longer need would suffice.
as i see water will no longer fill a devoid body. my thirst.
just with the passing of the river tides reminds me
of days when breathing came through lungs.
lungs not hardened with the plaster
i breathe in excess everyday.
nothing should come between the dancing rituals of lost lovers.
nor should anything hobble down crooked backstreets in the late night. stare with closed eyes.
its the stars i watch. no longer with desire to see them.
but at a loss for how they should wither like the lillies i cannot plant.
the small light surrounded by darkness is but once more
another illusion of the good that everyone
seems to tempt me with.
but can desire of a hero really create one? and does not the vast emptiness surpass the short-lived brightening of the stars.
wooden planks serenely tempt my mind into those hazy days. long past moments, i used to cry for.
and the bottles i collect no longer filled with oxygen are but a hesitation.
tripping through day by day collections into a year that no one will recognize as my own.
with sticky-note reminders, heralding the highlights of
a true life without possesion.
can it be possible to lose the will to live and by doing so surrender to the fate of all others?
the fate that only some may see as death with routine functions
i once was capable of but now seem as only a pathetic ritual must.
sometimes it seems as though the fairy tale ending is ironic
but perhaps not in a day-and-age long from the once-upon -a-times i remember
chances are the princess is adorned in too tight jeans and a ponytail.
but perhaps those are the ones who pull through the wicked days.
maybe they were the ones curled up in dark closets.
perhaps, alone on a pier in a raging storm laughing at the gusts of awful
that maniacally ambush their eyes,
ripping tears that otherwise would not come.
chances are slight they fought themselves with blades
mangled their flesh to feed the dying violets in their life.
chances are thin they lost hope to cold eyes
driven to shame and the pursuit of a life less restless.
yes, slim though the chances may be. there is still that
pinnacle. that stare of a leftover star that is wrapped
in a vacuum of dark anger. and yet death would not be an option.
because a chance is still there
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