Steel greets its wielder.
Cold precision gathers heat in passionate strokes.
It was some time before the prior return.
Prickling problems propagate perpetually.
The self-surgeon traces anatomy in red lines,
dissecting stray letters from lungs as legacy.
Da Vinci takes the wheel
and the poet is strung up, naked, chained,
bound to the paper once disposable
now imbued with intangible meaning,
with the author holding the keys to the locks to his wrists.
It clears a crowded mind to swipe at the rioting thoughts.
A point’s prodding touch comes as mercy,
what the devil’s advocate would advertise as the antidote,
taking measures in scratches.
A rubber band snaps at the trigger’s pull.
Half-hearted remedies earn only an eighth of grace.
form a nascent mountain
erupting from flat ground.
Struggle to the apex on the unforgiving surface,
or strike horizontally against the high road,
cheating by recommendation to the masochist’s fix.
The burn is a worthwhile reminder of humanity.
Between crushing realities of failure and forfeiture,
a handful of red lines never caused a tremor.
A searing heat comes as a comforting friend.
Dull bathroom light’s glow
reads road maps in morse code.
Insert to spell grief.
Hit for trauma.
Pain illuminates itself in a mirror’s shame.
A burn wipes the slate clean.
( ❤ Mitch)