Unfurling

Could I become the reason why
There’s something more to wake and choose to find
With fingers curling slowly on a blade that none could pry
…are reasons really good enough to sever or to justify the bind?

I wonder, all the same,
If it was shame or just a name
Or just an answer that I needed
So that something fully realized could shield me from the blame as I retreated

Believing, there in diffidence,
Were isolated islands in an ocean made of beads
And there, within a sky I knew was painted cold in insolence
…I tried to be the reason I continued drawing breath through broken reeds

Peculiar, in a sense,
That each lament was mere pretense
And that, with fingers slowly curling
’round the blade I feared to hold, I simply called it self-defense instead of calling it reality unfurling

Culprit

I take those imperfections and I tuck them all away
I file them succinctly under letters labeled Z through A
I put in little pictures, annotations to relay
The reason that they’re there as if to measure some dimension of decay

And organizing every bit of failure that I find
I tell myself it’s like a map to places where I’m surely blind
And labeling the evidence I carefully designed
I casually connect the dots and hope that it’s a path to peace of mind

I put the frailest fragments like they’re pins upon a board
And stretch a length of yarn between them all in search new reward
As if, there in the middle, I can find the real discord
The poison underneath so that an antidote I’m finally moving toward

I take all of the answers and I file them, you see
In folders, alphabetically arranged, I labeled A to Z
I put in new addendums, black and white photography
That always seem to show that there’s an answer there, below,
But it’s hazy and just maybe I’m a little more than crazy
But sometimes I think the culprit that I see is merely me

Turbulence

The pin dropped
And then stopped
Circles made of sound were flattened low
Joining “can’t” to words of “have to know”

And sound rose
Around those
Travesties of tenuous regard
Turning tender tenebrous and charred

The chime brings
Divine wings
Chapters set in books not fully penned
Merging “I mistook” with “duly tend”

But set low
Was threat, so
Tapestries of every spurned offense
Carried far away in burned dispense
And when the pin no longer made a sound
The only thing it left was turbulence

October

As though a singer flawed my notes were sung in self-deception
While altering reception in the tone that chose to linger
I let my fingers run along your smoothest imperfections
And played a record full of grooves the way you used to love to

The underlying static was a sheet beneath the cadence
Bereft of all conveyance, though in ways more satisfying
Intensifying everything except the swift abeyance
That left a lonely echo in the missing song made of you

And maybe holding on to all the dim reverberations
As if elaborations of a letter left unfolding
Withholding all the sentiment, we killed considerations
And hid the pain in satin like the way poetic gloves do

With elevating tension growing ’round a waning smile
Like phantoms in denial of the hell that’s now awaiting
I’m fading with the memory that matches my exile
And wonder if you feel the weight I do recalling how I used to love you

Demise

Pass to me the vial full of ink that I may use
The quill of imperfection on a parchment like a fuse
And where the black is bleeding soon the stain is like a bruise
And here I wonder why when given many passages I seem to always know that it’s the darkest that I’ll choose

Burning round the edges so it seems like an antique
This manifested metaphor of loss I seem to seek
As though the destination isn’t nearly quite as bleak
As what I know it’s always been because it’s what it was before but I approach it like a word I shouldn’t speak

Hand to me the scissors that I sharpened yesterday
To cut around the corners of a truth that couldn’t stay
As true as all the consequences lies could not allay
Because I knew I had to sever something underneath the skin before I knew how much of me to cut away

Drying now the ink upon a tapestry of skies
Where still I hold a shovel digging deeply for reprise
While crafting only bigger crowns of pitch and many flies
I wonder just how many know the pain of knowing where they go while slowly mapping their descent into the turbulent intent of their demise

Died

Subtracting even now and bound with optimistic wings
I wonder how long in the shadows I would rot away from many stings
And when the flesh is peeling
Is the blackness it’s revealing
Showing all I ever was and all I ever could have been was just a tangled set of strings?

And swallowing the laughter like the air from a balloon
Inhaling air I tried exhaling into notes that never made a tune
The breaths are growing shallow
Where the years seem ever callow
In the corner of contrition will I fade with all the fanfare of a February moon?

Adjusting, as I do, for all the values never known
I wonder just how many days, how many weeks, I’d be there all alone
And linger undiscovered
Like a lie forever covered
In a world of dimming rhythm from the chimes and dead alarms upon a phone

How many more and many would have set me there aside
As if a momentary memory that always had to be denied
Where now, in a finale,
I remain within a valley
And I wonder just how many days I’ll rest there in the corner till somebody realizes that I died.

Should

That mandatory whisper with a voice devoid of breath
Left speaking of tomorrow as if yesterday was death
And curling little fingers ’round the fallacies of truth
To cast a shadow of our age upon our youth

With minatory meaning and a sharpness in a glance
That says the gamble made was never really worth the chance
But beckoning statistics that would beg of our belief
As if a tonic for a wound of no relief

In predatory fashion with a hunger never full
And gifting every eye apparel made from heavy wool
Though telling us to see beyond the veil of new demand
Solidifying not a bit of what we planned

By auditory absence of a confirmation’s note
To grant a revelation from a cycle duly rote
With empty affirmations written on the page of could
Are we inscribing many stories ‘neath the never-ending tyranny of should