Use Their Name

Enough is said about nothing,

dancing about the subject,

enlarging the object

that then directs all and none,

capturing the attention yet captivating nil.


A stray phrase spears as a needle into a bubble,

and swirling sentences suddenly uncover

a mess that must be addressed,

though our collective common sense does stress:

appease against aggressors at the gates.


Fold to obscure where edges lie.

Lay flat to smother the creases,

leaving the problems gasping for air,

swinging swords to whittle at the exoskeleton,

where mere bone and grit mark the final line of defense,

with wits at an end and control absent by its own intrusion.


Our collective common sense,

not yet uncommon to dispense,

forces belief into wounded boys scraped by stigma,

watching an elephant expand,

birthed from the unsaid, unheard, unseen,

though simultaneously the entirety of above,

written away by normalcy in beer cans,

expired manifestos,

antiquated fortresses,

preaching solitude to an empty crowd,

the chairs shattered by the silent thunder of shotgun shells.


Crowded with a collection of ammunition,

lining the counter with pellets, pills, potions,

subduing through surrender,

where a grave marker is nameless to those passing,

but a number to those reading,

proving the knowledge known but disputed by ignorance.


Enough is said about nothing,

dismissing injury as a love letter to weakness,

advocating for the loudest generation of voiceless,

witnessing screams strike in bolded calligraphy,

red tally marks adorning the wall,

counting the nameless that are rendered thusly by circumstance,

but we recall the meaning behind integers.

Faded in monochrome,

the past is more than a graphic’s siren call,

where dots on a page are grander than infinity,

plotting the poor workmanship that supports hunched backs,

using touted pillars to impose a bent knee.


Succumb and subdue through surrender.

Speak softly for fear of turning backs to the sea.

Stay little for fear of abusing a welcome.

Be staid in circumstance.

Be serene in atrophy.

We describe the meaning behind integers,

but the words find the greatest of misdirects are kept close at home.


Toying around the elephant,

all get ill,

none get ill,

and it is true in every view.

Adrift in the wake,

it was as if no one ever knew what we decided to never know.

( ❤ Mitch)

2 Comments

  1. I have no patience for long verse works, or I should really say stamina. Still, whenever I see one like this, elegantly threading through your lolling rhymes into eternity, I am inspired to try. Lovely work.

    Liked by 1 person

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