Vigil

I put another flower on your grave today
The ones I placed before were losing color in the shade
Were growing duller as they grayed,
For, like a little congregation, they were dying where they pray

I placed a pair of roses there before your tomb
The other ones, I guess, had been devoured by the snow
And so they cowered, hidden low
For, like the severed things they are, they were bereft of ways to bloom

I placed another tulip where your body rests
Yesterday, an orchid, and tomorrow, daffodils
But like a sorrow seeks to kill
They seem to wither like a promise that we never had to test

I brought a new bouquet, it’s all I had to spare
I’ve brought so very many but they never seem to last
As if forever is the past
Because I know you’re still alive and I’m just waiting for the day you meet me there

Seeming

Wrapped up in the intimation of a figure stoic
Wearing, even now, a garment partially heroic
Speaking words I never really understood completely
Uttered as if confidential whispering discreetly

Standing here as if it mattered to you in the merest
Modicum of meaning yet I held you, ever dearest
Bolstering the feeble feeling that if I could barter
More than what I had then maybe none would be the martyr

Wrapped up in insinuation cauterized and scarring
Underneath a gauze umbrella where the pain is jarring
Lying through the teeth I’m gritting tight to hold the torrent
Of the failing benediction you would never warrant

Slipping slowly with a clatter made of apprehension
In a field of memories I’ve learned to never mention
Maybe all I’ve ever been is something you were dreaming
Sadly, though, you’ve never seen me…all you’ve ever seen is how I’m seeming

Confession

I feel as though I calculate
And never make a single calculation
I measure out the permanence that wasn’t really permanent
In values organized in permutations

I set a set of sliding scales
Against the metaphors of old deception
I find in the dividing there are only larger dividends
To quantify the meaning of exception

I feel like I’m conspiring
But never wear the mask of conspiration
I organize the images and elements and reasoning
Until I cannot see a complication

I put another piece in place
Without a thought and, so, without concession
I walk along a dotted line of severed veins and arteries
And cannot hear the blood over the sound that I omit from each confession

Autopilot

In weaving this, a wonderful mirage,
I place a veil of lacquer over empty catacombs
And painting little stars to hide alone where night is blacker
Than the part of me that knows that, in a way, it’s sabotage
Because I promise you a winter
And a sign of “None May Enter”

But here I have become a mere facade
An effigy I’m burning in the nights to keep me warm
And stifle any need I have to mourn for what I’m earning
Where the centipedes are crawling in the veins of dying gods
And I am just so very tired
Of the darkness that I’m mired

In hearing you, a siren in the fog,
My heart a steady rhythm made of dread I’ll have to drink
My hands are on the brink of reuniting with the prison
That I fashioned of impressions of forgotten dialogue
Because I knew what I was saying
When I chose the path betraying

But now there’s only corridors of smoke
A palace of attrition made of people that I lost
Where windows in the summer wear their frost like an admission
For within, it’s always winter
And my eyes see only violet
While I move without a reason
Navigating through the fog on autopilot

Obsolescent

All that I remember is the fuse before it lit
The vivid coloration
With a sound like an ovation
And a silhouette of circles at the bottom of a pit
…swallowing the shards of its creation

Everything before is just a blur and little more
A slow reverberation
Or a glimpse of a location
And a hollowing sensation slipping slowly through my core
…vertigo from inverse elevation

What I seem to see in all the moments that remain
Are figures, iridescent
Where the sun is now a crescent
Hiding low behind a moon that only ever learned to wane
…living in a cycle acquiescent

All I see before me is a fuse wearing a spark
In painted rooms, fluorescent
With the sound of flies, incessant
And the words are made of echoes that require no remark
…at how they used to carry such a weight, however stark,
Before they slipped away in circles at the bottom of a pit, now obsolescent

Crashes

The problem, I guess,
Is the fear I confess
Or the fear that, I guess,
Isn’t valid unless

I can measure its weight
Or define its dimensions
In lines that are straight
I can bind and then gate
And assign to a valid extension

The problem, I guess,
Isn’t clearly assessed
By the fear I suppress
When I’m clearly a mess

And I’m digging a grave
In a desert of ashes
As if I could save
Anyone from the wave
That I cause when the fear that I feel and I crave,
On the shores of reality, crashes

Apparitions

What wondrous apparitions
Have we granted such a monolithic state
Wrapping all around them are the tatters of conditions
That we knew were never destiny and so we tried to say that it was fate

And placing them in chapels
With a tithing made of all that could’ve been
Candles burning brightly and an offering of apples
Knowing all they do is rot away inside a mouth of “still, I would again…”

So callous reservations
Are we wearing hoping they can keep us warm
Stepping ever lightly on the make-believe foundations
That are holding up a temple that would fall apart if truth became a storm

But asking, in contrition,
If, for once, the apparitions could appear
Granting recognition of the cost of our submission
Knowing well they never will and yet continuing to hope that if we learn to make them real then it’s okay if we, in pieces, disappear

Dismissed

Diluting my spirit with spirits diluted
I wonder, how much of me’s left?
When words elocuted are barely a memory
Borne of the wreckage that left me bereft

With wandering syllables slowly saluting
A banner I made out of dread
And wearing a uniform made of out of treachery
Leaking affinity, just to pretend that I bled

Dissolving the meaning with meaning dissolving
I wonder, what’s left in the end?
When losses are mounting and all that I’m gaining
Are wounds that I know not a surgeon could mend

With withering elegies slowly suffusing
A martyrdom made out of mist
I buckle a smile to cheeks that are dying
And speak all the words that are trying to swim in the ocean of pain I dismissed

Cross

Should I have thrown the sky into the sea
Gone racing for the water in a lake of mirror waves
And promised that the effigy I burned
Was never what I promised it should be
Where fingertips are mausoleums in a world of graves
With stoic gaze, should I have never turned

To face the sun I swore to watch decay
A penny in between my fingers blotting out the moon
Embracing every spurious eclipse
As testimony to a better day
That tapers like a candle that I burned before it’s noon
To hide the tombs upon my fingertips

Should I have chased the sea into the sky
Gone flying over chasms that would only spiral down
And told myself that plummet means ascend
That living is the epithet to die
And breathing is the prize that I deserve for being drown
When death I duly found and surely penned

Upon a page that purges any ink
And leaves me a reflection that is surely just as blank
Should I insert the memory of loss
Between the vivid sights of every blink
Deposit them as coins into a vacuum of a bank
And mouth the words of thanks as I obsequiously craft another cross

Bleed

She left me
So I left me here with wrist set like a sieve
She left me
So I guess we only have this to believe
She’s gone
And maybe dawn is just a joke for which I grieve
She left
And so I left and now the only thing that’s left to do is bleed…