Rendered Wingless

She always knew that spring was her favorite season.

Shedding cobwebs in the leaves’ glow she sang:

“This is where I turn over.

This is where the heart begins.”

Scribbled in the edges of a notebook, hope lived out its days,

tracing flower outlines as an anniversary of promises years past.

Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m aglow when I see you shine.

I live inside this light.

With fingers intertwined, she believed in different days.

Someday there will be a gaze that sees past simple flesh.

There was no warmth from your address then.

Kept your troubles huddled up in peeling bedroom walls,

projected into images full of faces never known.

Faces that weren’t yours.

Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m in the driveway tonight.

I live to see the light.

Pale skin was quaking under suspicion of being found out.

Somewhere tucked away was a sharpened edge made dirty.

Someone was drawing disappointment on those arms.

There were black lakes growing on her back.

And she sang, “that’s probably what I was worth when I opened my mouth,

and I was nervous enough that I needed a punch back in line.”

And I tried to say something rehearsed in a new way but tripped on the memories.

The crows were knocking on your heart’s door,

Banging on for more.

Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I haven’t left you to this fight.

I live to know the light.

With fingers intertwined, she marched to olden days.

The ink on the notebook edges had dried up under shaded branches.

The sun had melted clean and dried up the clouds.

I was tossing stones at the bedroom window looking for a smile.

She was speaking in romantic tones, turning a lying boy into a saint.

And I tried to say it never had to be carved that way into the fabric of your history.

I wanted to reach out and hold a setting star, breathe color back inside.

But she sang, “this is my lot and I will not buckle under any swing.

This is how and where I’ll lay my weary head and I won’t need another’s warmth.”

The crows were clawing at her heart’s door.

Hanging on for more.

Wake and rise.

Come outside.

I’m waiting to see my friend.

Where has she been?

I always knew that spring would be the hardest time.

Tracking trails of dust on a book shelf to untouched reminders.

Brush the age away and her face seems frozen in place.

Hindsight is barking in my ear that I should’ve read the fear.

There’s a marker laid to enshrine the name but I don’t see any of you.

Fading numbers tell a story but they’re short on the details.

The light of you doesn’t shine through and I think I’ve lost the thought of you.

Staring deep into the fabric of your history, wondering why you engraved it that way,

knowing I existed inside that vibrant glow and there’s no traveling back.

Here come the gang of crows fluttering about the rocks.

They’re digging talons into your memory,

hanging on for more.

( ❤ Mitch)

Attenborough Watches with Pride in His Eyes

Circle about the brickwork.

Dart through the alleys to close in on the prey.

Vibrant eyes are a violent girl’s prize.

That pulse is quaking the frame and quickening feet.

“Oh, I’ll get what I want out of you.”

Deconstruct the soul for timber and tinker about the blood,

crafting a refuge to sail above the flood.

It’s a personal ark odyssey, take two of every part of this.

No protest from those lips so push past the reservation.

Go ahead and come on, pounce on this.

I am a fading flower thirsting for a lie.

Go on and use me.

Voice is stripped away; promise I will not sway.

My skin is a flourishing forest to tend to all the need.

Sink into as I sink without a sail to lead.

Fingers flail about for reciprocation hanging in perpetual limbo.

Her smile’s twisting in those rare brushes of acting out.

Scratches sign a map on the small of the back:

The blueprints of desire laid bare for excavation.

It’s shaking my vessel dry, it’s sucking out the air.

Sink into as I sink without and I love the feeling.

That pulse pounds just for me, a cheater girl’s fantasy.

“Oh, I’ll get what I want out of you.”

So go ahead now, claw at me.

I am the loyal pawn, obey everything.

Go on and use me.

I am a starved heart, I’ll cherish anything.

Now there’s a note to nothing left to gather dust.

There sits a lasting message to testify to never meaning.

Peeling away the covers on my faded geography,

scarification mountains a dull red memory,

a deserted boy’s deluded harmony.

Was I too much if I asked for too much?

Was I used up and measured empty?

You liar, don’t pretend it failed everything.

You liar, you remember everything.

Running now just to recall the chase.

Fighting an urge by replacing an urge to replace the streaks.

Slicing at roots for the love of a purpose.

Adhere to the passion never felt because no matter how far you get

it’s the best possible love you cannot forget.

( ❤ Mitch)

Porch Sounds

How did it come to be that the voices of these streets

faded into fleeting recollections of echoes?

Figures once set in place move freely about the board,

leaving traces in blurred snapshots a thousand words cannot describe.

Like shifting clues into place, I’m matching facades to faces,

scrambling from context as memory drains itself to a desert state.

It used to be so simple, so perfectly simple

to find a friend behind every frame.

One knock and the day erupts in motion.

And now it feels so desperate, split across and made separate.

Knocks go unanswered.

There’s no time to answer.

Perching on the throne of metalwork recreation,

we declared ourselves kings of the forest and a second could never age us.

Somewhere along the lines between holding onto youth and expectation,

the cracks opened miles wide and I’m afraid we’ve all fallen deep inside.

Looking upon mud and twigs where grand designs once stood,

staring out into a stranger’s backyard, chasing sounds of familiarity.

How did it come to be we ended up alone

after struggling so hard to reconstruct our disassembled bodies?

Molded by this potent nurture do these drones march to practiced beats.

Punch in the cards, sever the throats, leave selves at the door.

I sit nursing my faulty machinery watching days move without me.

There’s not a name to turn to anymore.

Hereby all are declared null and void—let succumb to black scratches.

If this is the triumph of expectation then only one lesson is to be found,

and there’s just a single story to describe from moving signs.

Spend time wisely, spend time well, but the moments do pass.

You’ll crash down.

Dreams used to be so vibrant in past years.

It was so easy to picture in color.

Let spin the calendar globe and the ink runs dry.

The revolution breathes the words unwanted.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

( ❤ Mitch)

In on the Target

Come to find an encroaching storm with vultures in the wake.

Come to find a caved-in complex, left to tend to future injury.

As the thunder rains down beaks to pick and chew,

I smell a rat

somewhere festering amidst the ruin.

Bring down a hammer on the character I play.

Say the phrases so painstakingly chosen to say.

Slither forth, bark your independence, but it won’t own you.

Blank home faces are all we are and we are carried all the same.

Come to find our carcasses enshrined in eager wings.

Come to find an abandoned ship left to aimlessly sink itself.

The water runs from a man-made breach,

and I smell a rat,

somewhere keeping my head low.

Try to run but I’ve got claws buried in sidewalk cracks.

Those phrases so painstakingly chosen to say

will whistle through consciousness in each strained step.

Shift in time but the character you play won’t age a day.

Not in my eyes.

Come to find bones bled to dry and shine in perfect white.

All the same it is ended to be with no regard to betrayal.

Passing through halls, catching a glance,

and I smell a rat

entrenched in the hollow of your chest.

I see a rat

crawling wreckage to wreckage.

Wave your hammer round and round but I won’t collapse.

Wield the weight of vitriol but I don’t shatter.

Lightning bellows from the marching clouds gathering ever closer.

In one strike the vultures spiral thousand at a time.

Shout above the whirl of wings but recognize this:

Push me under, I’ll drag you down.

Push me under, we’re bled empty either way.

(<3 Mitch)


Parched throats refuse to scream,

drinking the dust from craters,

watching the knives cut the blue out of the sky,

wrapping up the mushroom heads for the new bleak horizon.

Roaring treads is the dominant fashion trend,

parading through the common ruin of immolated dreams.

A stray bark and onlookers collapse on command.

Roll their bones to the floor to pave the path forward:

An infrastructure comprised of bleeding architecture.

And yet palms still stretch to rise above the wake of a ticking clock,

their pain on display, their eyes begging for storms,

a deluge to wipe the slate clean and knock the blades out of orbit.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back with ambivalence.

Painted boards and battle cries

never pierce past blue screens,

but the reach of ignorance crosses over every deconstructed domain.

Find purchase in the soil to double down versus the trauma machine,

but it only needs a simple wave to pull hearts asunder.

The home that screams the loudest is the next to be demolished.

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

and blank out their eyes.

The march of empty feet still proceeds through the hail.

A procession files neatly into cracked wooden caskets,

as the ones lost to erupting cars find a funeral in the flash.

No justice to claim despite living under this cause,

where there’s a promise of hope and a promise of solace through nothing but faith.

But what of the ones with graves unmarked,

the stones set in place by those using your name?

Their limbs are cracking under layers of earth churned out by this machine,

fingers clawing to reach to the sky.

But past all of this fear and all of this loss,

past sermon and sacred and service and safety.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back, ambivalent.

( ❤ Mitch)

An Abyss Was Mirrored Back

Keep ever so quiet now.

There’s a thought bubbling towards the surface.

Hear it float on the whim of soundless yelling voices.

Keep them ever so quiet now.

The path is wrought with vines.

Collapsed bones manifest in the undergrowth.

A stray dream chases me to the weeds,

forming a home in dirt with soil my warm blanket.

Inhale, relax, let the tender touch soothe,

lest the screen be pulled away and the ruse revealed.

Several fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a ladder tall enough to rise.

These clouding fears are crowding up and diving down,

reversing motion, burrowing deeper now,

searching for a route to overcome,

falling fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a hope great enough to believe.

Content to be without a match to strike,

I may sit here and tally the days away in shadows and silence,

Restlessly tied to the traces that remain

of any desire to grasp for a rung.

Their desperate hands stretch through sinew,

marking their claws and sharpening their teeth,

making skin a cave painting of past mistakes.

Hear them call—climb higher, bring rope,

climb further, be greater.

Subdue, diagnosis, keep them ever so quiet.

See the last rays to peak over the edge.

Convince the eye it’s a trick of the mind.

( ❤ Mitch)


Take flight at the first sign of fear.

“Go forth” said the makeshift martyr, “find peace in escape.”

There’s a promise in every promise buried under their cost.

Pay no mind—find comfort in staying lost.

I’ll sit here in this chair with the legs entrenched in gaping holes,

a will to motion and movement decaying.

My back is stitched, made one with the fabric.

Threads run deep and intertwine with my spine,

transforming two into one without a thought to call their own.

Does it even really concern the world when it’s known the land is scorched?

Fires are rising outside of the window,

so stay inside and draw the blinds ever tighter.

This view of ours grows so much narrower,

so stay inside and scream within the chamber.

Feed off the feast of failure portrayed on a daily cycle.

It lingers far from the front porch,

safely secluded in the mind’s comfort,

not once crossing into a dangerous state of being.

I rest circadian-esque on apathy’s perch,

all motivation tucked into a forgotten corner of consciousness.

The bed is a shield against the mounting truth.

I’ll make a coffin out of the sheets,

nailing down the edges to seal inside the strain of care that remained.

It’s far too hot outside these days anyway.

It’s far too painful to believe in a future anyway.

Fires are rising outside of the window,

so stay inside and draw the blinds ever tighter.

This view of ours grows so much narrower,

so stay inside and scream within the chamber.

The screams are rebounding.

( ❤ Mitch)

Where Everyone Never Knows Your Name

Extended hands reach out to find the air waiting near.

These fingertips are piercing through nothingness with a face;

thought I felt a calming pulse mirroring my pace.

But it’s been said that I say too much about faulty machinery—

Gears turning becoming caught on memories reversing.

It can all reset when I pretend the smile is back.

Signals ring far to search for a voice’s calm blanket,

having been sparked by desire to discover the comfort assured.

Found a complacent companion was what you preferred.

But it’s been said I place value unfairly in these perspectives

where hope is bet on a gesture meaning more than appearances.

It can all be discarded come the moment thereafter.

Noticed the expanding length of the steps needed between,

with days diminishing in the interlude of refusing speech;

considered it a lesson only distance could teach.

But it’s been said I expect too much when giving too much,

feeling skin and soul sink in creases I never perceived prior.

It can enjoy ignorance when I claim there’s nothing there.

And it’s been said in seconds present and the seconds passing

there was only a husk in place since the beginning,

Bouncing along cobblestone lanes, bearing no weight,

managing invisibility in clear view with a gasping throat,

words blocking all notes, cutting protest and forcing rest,

having no will to utter a sound—only fear of the consequence.

The only true thing is the only thing never said,

left to hang in the air like smog filling my lungs.

I could only ever come alive with glasses held high,

appearing in those eyes like having been dead otherwise.

One moon killed by the sun and the crowd moves on;

a new morning to signify that ghost of a friend was gone.

When the choking grows too loud—smoke billowing out,

the shoulders promised turned tail and fled.

I called it a sign and brought it inside of myself,

and through all I believed it was for this I had bled:

For faults out there transformed into faults of my own;

blame for the seconds existing out of frame.

I can pick up, rebuild, and expect no more.

Discard resets, returns, and the notions of either.

Ignorance has no more words to spend.

I’m present—not passing.

Extended hands reach out.

Only the air is waiting near.

It’s not a surprise anymore.

( ❤ Mitch)

Have a happy, safe New Year’s.

Push Back the Dominoes

You want to know the end before the story starts.

If all flesh and bone make a cover for the eyes,

play judge for me and reign over our mutual trajectory.

Find a purpose in these gestures if there’s a meaning to be found.

It’s a lifetime to be spent digging into an empty vault.

Rip away the years and still nothing will be there to fill the chamber.

Here are the hundreds of reasons against exhaling left untamed on torn sheets.

I started the first line with you in mind and for the rest I followed in kind.

There’s a vacancy occupied in each stabbing reminder,

and the pen flies across the pages to capture the look you gave.

These words fill a hundred pictures, shot in perfect sequence,

letters dressed in their perfect tops and ties,

never failing to grasp the lasting impression of becoming a disappointment in that glance.

Here are the blanks you colored in without ever needing a voice.

Looking now, as was then, I never realized how it appeared from the outside:

A sculpture carved in fragile ice melting in its self-appointed sun.

Pedestals spring from the earth; it’s hard to figure how they reach so high,

and why the figures placed upon can so freely press their fingers down upon my frame.

Such a scattered collection of thoughts was received amongst questions kept silent,

all responsibility internalized to embody the sole liability.

This shadow cast by your towering shape is no longer mine to hide in.

Ruins defy disappearance when coded into conscious,

but I’m stepping through every chapter to erase the name inside.

It has been time and still further time to come where barely a flicker remains

of a star that once burned so bright overhead.

Yet what was called connection and given purpose, given feeling,

had nothing more but an excuse attached to leech and prosper in spite of others.

Held so high over me, I leave you powerless.

Reignited without, I find no more of this.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

( ❤ Mitch)

Sunset in Rose

A little hole in the head is all that is necessary.

A little weight off the wallet is enough for a commitment unconsidered.

Whether it’s a trick of the mind or a will of the heart,

there will always be time to take the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

And they’re all standing lined up at attention:

A resurrected skeleton crew set to dance to a familiar tune.

They’re tapping away on a stage worn down through cycles of esteem.

There’s a hit;

Something starts to snake up my veins.

There’s a hit;

No structure remains below my feet.

There’s a hit;

Illustrations bleed into the real.

There’s a hit, there’s a hit, there’s a hit.

When the stream is cleared out of the drained reservoir of these irises,

a stretch of fabric be tossed onto the surface—

The glorious red-carpet affair of the drama of yesteryear’s last year,

and the ensuing anticipation of the continuing coincidence of matching plots.

Never before has the envelope gone sailing off the edge, thusly it is claimed,

as the curtain covers the constant truth of the all-apparent status quo.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and pretend the things that are there have long disappeared.

It’s a ploy to pry the wandering thought from clutching to a persistent memory,

reanimating the undead for their timeless ritual on their timeless platform,

providing motion to emotion as if their limbs are forged in fire and iron,

everlasting in ages and the shifting of geography.

The oceans can swell and change their tides or push off the lands of dreams.

It never circumvents the incoming hit.

There will never be safety from the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

Direct the blocking made so familiar in the quiet knocking of trauma

as the tally marks reappear across the abdomen—

Yesteryear is back on the headlines.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and declare the decisions fed in your ear by a whispering ghost.

She’s making promises with her fingers tied in knots,

tucking her full hand around the waist.

The theatrics roar at the sound of a snap

and I feel a hit.

( ❤ Mitch)