Blind To Periphery

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Blind to periphery

Deaf to anything emitting estranged lips—

Hunting for verbs when a plethora of consonants writhe intangibly by the weeping wounds concealed by striated grief—

Feral and straying from the path that light guides feet towards—

Ignorance of enigmatic gates, ignorant of the ellipsis of never-ceding fate, you crumble softly upon the shield of those that fell first, in a shining misperception of self

Non-stop layovers

overstepping functionality

of shapelessness. Forms and

fragmentations sympathetically

frighten systems ever

skewered by the partitions

that stir connections between enmity and the ingratiated—

ever arching and over-reaching

spans and sprawls of doldrums

constructed solely to offer control 

to otherwise distortional groups of experimentation

that when sung, embellish all that’s pretty and pure,

creating caricatures too severe to ever be considered

anything more than pseudo-speak—

relationally inept monstrosities

 remotely kept to score the sensations of relations

as to what is, and bound to be necessity—all

too often these pronouncements purge within, the waves and turns

forever tumbling through the tumults in our acidic wake

When you are alone, the internal monologues

never seem to die—instead

words and dialectical compositions

continuously loop back and about

awry the confusing preambles retort—

triangulating the precipitation upon the brow,

and then appears, the invisible degradation, the corruption

of motility, the vagrancy of ability, in flux stasis, gyrating in solitary

confirmation, lens of laughter, peering at you through the shafts of radioactive thought processions, creating, haunting

the cyclicality of mood irrigating all paths to come, all ruts we’ve succumbed from.

Pine Box

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Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the other day

sleeping in a pine box

dreaming that this time

it’ll all turn out some other way

It’s sad how fast we deteriorate

breaking free, rotting unto the lost domains

unprepared for what will be claimed

we grow resigned in the mannerisms of loneliness and loss

where stagnating shards fragment and shape our future plots

Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the others

sleeping in a pine box

all the father’s, daughters, sons and mothers

It’s amazing how things often come down

to the number of correct decisions we make,

the one’s we never would have made

if not for one mistake, often an accidental turn

we, at the time, deemed to be entirely incorrect

And we never would have had the opportunities

to live and to love, to bleed and to sweat

all those intangible emotions that

would not be available now, or

would not be available in the innumerable futures yet to come

But the erroneous turn we did commit

and the flaw will forever be remembered

when necessary, for sensorial exhumation

Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the other day

sleeping in a pine box

eyes closed yet open, wide as they’ve ever stayed

And in these containers

we hold our cherished mistakes

as one would keepsake any artifact

that holds close the unmeasured meanings

ever available for conjuring crucial memories lost but never forgotten…in a pine box

Limbless

Broken entity

Far removed

Still can

Feel it’s former

Severed limb

To where

It’s unknown

Yet the body

Feels as if one

Day it will come home

But the mind, it won’t lie

Softer over

Lavish green

Resides a dwindling

Mountain of white

The melt is but enough

To remind you

What’s been lost and

What remains

For Which I Bleed

Several hours have since past

Since I last counted the days

Since you left my side

Broken, like a crippled child

Alone, a brand new world revealed,

From the womb they get thrust right in

Taught forever about wrong and right

Then they get diagnosed, something is not alright,

 The Parents are by the child, at its side,

As they bury conviction, suppress emotions,

Weeks may pass, months perhaps,

Where their inner anger clouds decision,

Constructing rationale for irrational thought,

And just about this time, these ideas start making sense,

To have no choice, no other option

To feel a sense of failure,

For first the self, and then the child,

Soon it travels to all extensions in your life,

Finally that feeling of failure turns to blame,

It’s everybody else’s fault to which everything falls apart

But the infant does not know, cannot understand,

And derision it is deadly to the touch, deadlier without,

To the child tears and sobs become the sounds and sights of life,

At least to the one they know, they life they will soon recognize,

Themselves as the center, the cause,

Just looking for a reason to be wrong,

But that comfort never comes,

First comes reflection, then a connection, finally an acceptance,

At this point rehabilitation is years long and rivers wide,

For all the misunderstanding they’ve since mastered,

And from each tear they’ve ever crafted,

But these ones are still able for rescue,

Then there are the others,

Those who’ve lost all comfort from a tear,

They’ve since moved to closets in the dark,

Removing so much of what is real,

They create a detached composite, a comfort zone,

All this pain easily evaded, if the parent chose to do what mattered most,

Instead of allowing fear to dictate what matters to them most,

If they only did their job, at least if they tried to,

The outcome much different perhaps, the child’s life changed a fact

The child’s life changed, a fact

In situations like this, for example,

I shed my coat and extend an arm,

Where the simplest of embraces to the most desolate of faces,

May extinguish the residue from a life of harm,

These all and many more, are but a few of the reasons, for which I bleed