We All Wake Up

Lost track of the moonlight.

Refracted off departing eyes,

I tossed and turned in glowing dreams,

sensing the staged drama

and knowing its ending.


Lost track of the timing

as an alarm forced slumber,

in siren tones ignored in gloom,

washed over in dull grey

ever magnified by an absence.


Lost track of you

When I called it my reason.

Found comfort in razor cave art

until each image echoed;

waves of sound bearing your name.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dagger Types

Tracing photographs,

armed to the teeth

with colored pencils,

pretending bronze plates

can be overwritten

beyond the black and white.

Outside the veil, it’s plainly seen

the face has yet to change.


Toying with the features recreates the same,

for in an eyesight’s unwavering light,

imperfections expand in view.

With words swinging from tired verse,

I attack the breaks in doctored romance.

Somewhere beneath is the lurking similarity.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hunker Down in Bunker Town

Talking through but words come silently.

Everything is laid out yet still made opaque.

Rafters hang heavy on shoulders sagging from carrying the weight

of a place called home that feels less so when said,

even less when reflecting alone at chronology,

with artifacts of ardor reduced as love letters to dust.


Amassed into a cave of motives sharpened against its host,

you regress into recesses where dried remnants of anguish,

engulfing pale skin as if ice were breaking water free,

now deposited into spires clung to as allies,

scratches on shoulder blades a deserved brush with failures.


The sun is a critical eye.

Stars are camera lenses.

You travel further down to hide.


I match trajectories on paper where we seem to be beside,

tangled and dismantled as circumstance has declared,

strung chaotically together in something that bears fate’s name.

They’ve tossed shattered youth into a desert to teach them how to swim.

Stride or succumb matters not;

it will appear as if nothing was ever done,

and nothing was ever meant.


Sharing findings with a collection of colored shards,

I drew a treasure at the end of a spectrum of chances.

You reached for white and drew a chalk outline.


No company to keep except the thoughts you hate,

yet a part wonders if their presence is key to survival:

Shunning out the world to secure safety.


Evaporating with the ice as what once was greets a clouded horizon,

I’m not protected behind this shield.

I can’t see beyond the edges.

I can’t see where you’ve gone.

( ❤ Mitch)

Papercut War Cries

Breathless, noiseless scream,

pierce the dreaming.

Charge the scene with masked monsters.


Language loses the power of description at that which defies reason.

Crept from a carpenter’s nightmare or mind’s unchecked horrors,

it lumbers into tightening hallways,

a constrictor subduing its prey,

then to vanish into the emerging light of morning,

biding time until the next episode airs in twilight’s playground.


An attempted embrace is a knife’s lunge for the heart.

Immobile faces, silent messages

cascade down a mountaintop to the jagged rocks at its base,

piling trauma on fathoms that stretch ever deeper into repressed dilemmas.

Childhood memories and discarded bumps and scrapes

form the walls of a widening maze.

Hug to the left side and end up where the beginning was.

Hug the right side and all turns equal a wrong.


A perpetual loop of paranoia spills out from an isolated spirit,

and the constrictor’s tightening coil unveils its guise as one’s own hand.

Mistrust the trust for all cards flip to reveal false.

Reality loses value when suspicious eyes blur out the numbers,

transforming hope and affection into a deal descending into the red.


Noiseless screaming can murder a fear for a night,

but it unravels in cosmos,

swallowing up star rays as a self-imposed black hole.


Searched in astronomy and the map is blank,

yet it cannot be denied a beast is loose in a personal galaxy.

Crossing over skies,

enveloping Triangulum,

logic cowers versus its opposite.


Roots run dry daily without the compass of time.

A dead season comes guaranteed.

Forgotten in turmoil is the fiction inherent in a weary head,

yet nothing matters with disease at the controls.


Push away an outstretched arm.

Relapse into redefined confines.

The lying world is said to stay outside,

but it’s never known if it wasn’t inside all along.

( ❤ Mitch)