Internal Gardening of Weak Soil

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Fermenting Enigmas

Grow unchanged as

Inherent guilt derives,

Deceiving their own

Peculiarities

And then

You’ve created your own church, one

That bears a foundation made of wood, there,

For now, until, perhaps, true wisdom one day

Is granted and understood, layering the base

In cement and marble tiles

If and when that day comes to call, it will then be

Easy, to drop the match and burn down it’s every pew,

Alongside all the tenets you ever knew

Well-dressed in nakedness, you seek

That lake, the one, so easy to consume, you, wholly,

Absolved from all inadequacy, fostering a bed

From which the seed can promote, outward

Growth blessed from inner hope

And here, those enigmas, now fully steeped, disarm these anxieties in which you’ve so often spoke upon…. breaching the intuitive portions previously unexposed…for fear they’ll call you crazy

A Principle of Division

table salt—

sodium-chloride

locking in

another flood in wait

cupboard’s dusty—

an extension

of what we keep

for sustenance

in our jars of clay—

tamper-proof—preventing

another early wake

end. point. turn.

a new arithmetic has been observed—it crushes on the physical geometry we just have to learn—an ancillary construction’s hiding space—a distraction, a disgrace—a fake stir of optimism—for a scene based entirely upon pessimistic sets of codes—when discovery disrupts the guise we had formed, it disassembles all the equations we’ve ever known—the only beauty we’ve ever worn—deconstructing our place of home.

a nauseous  epidemic.

anxiety laden nerves. 

paranoid—and rightly so—

an underworld erected—from the trust and freedom love’s allotted us.

From the many we make few—the espionage grows and grows until it tires too—loneliness abounds, even when good hearts surround and the graphed parabolas never fail; they never fall—

self placed Landmines erupt-explode—triggered by the auxiliary education we so foolishly thought we would need to know—because of form, logic lost—a probability gambled upon, one too which the odds we thought we could beat—yet blinded by the arcs and shape—we deemed it a chance we had to take—opportunities like this are rare—amnesia of all we had simply disappears—all that was gets strained then lost— the superficial signs that led us astray—the most negative of causalities—where no one wins and the opportunity to start again—well, that die had been long since tossed—

alone again—first time since, what’s it been? Twenty-five years or so—empty house, empty home—friends grew busy, friends don’t answer their phones—all for what, all for what? Twenty-four-thirty-six-twenty-four—just numbers, random-strange—just memories—what an accomplishment—even if I chose to speak the lore—just look at me, look at me—even I wouldn’t believe a single word—strike that—I’d believe the part about the guy that’s lost it all.

end.

point.

turn-

where?

By Candlelight, By Crutch

By candlelight,

In seclusion,

The feelings wrong,

The feelings right,

In this space,

At this time,

A flickering flame,

Illuminates this night,

In the Morn,

Silence is worn,

Like hope is sold,

To tattered refugees,

Knowing well enough,

Yet enough doesn’t matter,

If it did, this would surely last,

All days merge, into nights before,

An image reveals its truth,

In such vivid animation,

The thought bears promise,

The thought’s corrupt,

Here this moment,

In this frame,

A reunion with a crutch known all too well

Consecration of a Fallen Man

Back me into a corner,

For lack of power I’ve transposed,

For lack of will I’ve succumbed,

From talisman to the snake bitten and embattled shell of one

Now acknowledgment displays to me,

The ignorance of the righteous man

Oxygen escaping the throat,

Resurrection of the rule proposed,

I’m the effigy I’ve grown to be,

A false proclamation of immediacy,

Where distraction settles,

Distraction dwells,

No longer is strength a matter

When the subconscious is involved,

Back me to that corner,

Until the sky is dim

The air less warmer,

Hold me down until submission,

Before I burn, I first do blister

Movements of the martyred man,

Paths paved in solace,

Past deeds shoved, to the wayside,

Awaiting approval, anticipating a decisive claim to be,

Directions carved in stone and sand,

Directives honest and direct,

Where even the weakest can reflect;

Where even the smartest can respect,

Without hubris’ burdening,

You now see what I should have long ago,

Here I am, now standing still,

Before you now I reveal to you,

The consecration of a fallen man