Bring forth the line to center stage.
Sweat beads intermingle in the haunting glow.
Should these lights dim and this spotlight love grow,
my stress—should it surpass your test—will amount to greater heights.
Cry out names, meaningless names!
Their purpose decays in a counterfeit embrace.
Cry out names, meaningless names!
We’ll turn to stone in our mutual throes.
A pair of fractured bodies are nothing more than trophies.
Count the casualties on your fingers—the victims are statistics:
The fatalities of our sharpened fangs.
We couldn’t make love, so we constructed it out of gold and cloth
and thought a monument to such monumental failure could add up to cover the faults.
Flourish in the eyes of an adoring a crowd,
then turn around and face me,
abuse the past and weaponize me.
If the blood that runs down these streets testifies to misguided strength,
then “Not to be” it will be,
dive into the troubles deep below the sea.
I am cursed to forever remember shows that won’t go on.
Yearly reviews justify the daily excuse
that the lines on my forearms are nothing but growing pains.
Titles said were senseless, that is true; but when you defined me in romantic hues,
I was compelled to be the landscape you displayed.
Surgically analyzed my outline,
mapped it out on crumpled parchment,
limbs extending outwards pointing anywhere but heavenwards.
No one could say that you didn’t know me—my every valley.
Shakespearian deception: that halo must be proud of you.
( ❤ Mitch)
