Tell it again
exactly how it’s planned
from forearm to cheek bone,
where you’ll lay down an empire of stone,
buried into skin’s fabric
where razor edges cannot grant escape
and a heavy touch comes a weighted reminder.
I watch you sink deeper in my dream hell
poking a pitchfork from floors below
to prod the anxiety to action,
prompting inaction at the doorstep,
seeing a blank parking lot
and the only path taken by its population of you and me,
as I got along a separate way
drinking in the fear of my dream hell
as a disrobed obsession rings the bell,
guiding her off on an odyssey temporary,
providing nothing to chance.
Pulling the plug out of urgency
to drain the pooling jealousy,
knowing now how it’s planned
from frozen toes to ruffled hair
where you’ll construct an empire of stone,
tucked into nooks beyond reaching,
all feeding the nervous engine to splutter
in the depths of my dream hell.
Lurking low in lost landscapes,
it’s an eternal calling card
of a sinking, sad fantasy.
( ❤ Mitch)