Sunset in Rose

A little hole in the head is all that is necessary.

A little weight off the wallet is enough for a commitment unconsidered.

Whether it’s a trick of the mind or a will of the heart,

there will always be time to take the plunge through the brush and the thorns.


And they’re all standing lined up at attention:

A resurrected skeleton crew set to dance to a familiar tune.

They’re tapping away on a stage worn down through cycles of esteem.


There’s a hit;

Something starts to snake up my veins.

There’s a hit;

No structure remains below my feet.

There’s a hit;

Illustrations bleed into the real.

There’s a hit, there’s a hit, there’s a hit.


When the stream is cleared out of the drained reservoir of these irises,

a stretch of fabric be tossed onto the surface—

The glorious red-carpet affair of the drama of yesteryear’s last year,

and the ensuing anticipation of the continuing coincidence of matching plots.


Never before has the envelope gone sailing off the edge, thusly it is claimed,

as the curtain covers the constant truth of the all-apparent status quo.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and pretend the things that are there have long disappeared.

It’s a ploy to pry the wandering thought from clutching to a persistent memory,

reanimating the undead for their timeless ritual on their timeless platform,

providing motion to emotion as if their limbs are forged in fire and iron,

everlasting in ages and the shifting of geography.


The oceans can swell and change their tides or push off the lands of dreams.

It never circumvents the incoming hit.

There will never be safety from the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

Direct the blocking made so familiar in the quiet knocking of trauma

as the tally marks reappear across the abdomen—

Yesteryear is back on the headlines.


Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and declare the decisions fed in your ear by a whispering ghost.

She’s making promises with her fingers tied in knots,

tucking her full hand around the waist.

The theatrics roar at the sound of a snap

and I feel a hit.

( ❤ Mitch)

2 Comments

  1. This one is a hit. I like the red carpet line. Who doesn’t go for drama? Red letter stuff. Escape the boredom. Everywhere the same. Play the game. Yeah, life is a real cut up and you’re a good writer. What do you think? Is the rose always smaller than the thorn?

    Liked by 1 person

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