imperfect phrases are bare as they are,
faulted in of themselves,
destined to depart in the conscious of instant gratification.
A bottle’s flood tells too much,
and when written in restraint’s absence,
an author’s dried ventricles are spent and nothing is meant.
The locked chest deals everyone out a key,
trading glances about a plastic face knowing its lack of veracity.
Loom over the artist in the glass,
begging for the aftermath,
playing games with what-ifs as tension swells in tumultuous waves.
Drop a curtain on a Hitchcock drama and away goes suspense.
The person and the pen scurry from their reflections,
strangers to one another.
To venture from the looking-flask or demand its silence
comes short of answering any inquiry to a vessel’s schematics,
as encased in continuous trauma as it now rocks,
could it or should it ever let its creaking floorboards be heard?
With rusted nails unhinged around every bend,
Noah hung his head at the inelegant schematics,
drifting in from imaginary to meet creativity’s fleeting fantasy;
two dreams meaning too much,
equaling to less in evaluation.
It’s never honest with myself yet too close for comfort.
Words conjure imagery but the memory is disintegrating.
All is chosen cautiously haphazardly.
The sole truth is a bottle is broken,
a flood is brewing,
and a captain drowns.
( ❤ Mitch)