Fighting to let your trunk grow tall.
Carving a place in the deep dark light.
Suckling on the touch of gin won’t offer purchase in the soil,
yet a fleeting vagrant took the role of the sun.
Drips from his bottle leave behind a garden of graves.
There’s no shovel big enough to unearth a semblance of solace.
I’ve got the warning signs of history etched into,
and I weave it into parchment as a message for your heart.
My body is the map of dead-end dilemmas,
the conduit for a misguided rage,
cutting holes and folding over creases to invent nonexistent escapes.
My body is the map to follow as I unravel.
The canyons of handheld glaciers are a lesson in twisted geography.
There won’t be profit earned from willing flaws into existence.
Sitting in depths where arms cannot reach down,
you’ve penned the story prematurely,
using words to paint a self-portrait of a target:
The Kezia of a rampant apathy that drains its passengers,
dropping off the remnants in a junkyard.
Are you proud to lay in a garden of graves?
Is it a pleasing fate to let another feast on your rays?
Has it been wasted time to stretch out surgically for a gaze
that saw nothing but a passing billboard sign,
driven by and never noticed?
Starring over scarification that endures through cycling years,
I wonder if it lasts forever as an artillery shell’s cave.
How far and long the struggle has gone,
and it doesn’t mean a single thing yet.
How far and long you’ve started to slip,
and I find no solace in any of it.
( ❤ Mitch)