Doing the Long Jump with Ankle Weights

Reached out too far,

now unbalanced on a beam

looking over into the abyss of cityscape visions.


Empty skeletons

of hollow infrastructure,

naught but a patchwork idea of how it could’ve been.


Iron and fire

molded to structural grace

are bound only by the thin glue of blood.


A touch of rust and a palette’s drained.

A receding figure and schematics shudder.

A flaw is made fatal

in what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Dared on chance,

and lost trace of tempo,

drumming clattering to halt at rushing beyond bounds.


Empty skeletons

of vanished imaginings,

disappearing behind the curtain tugged back to reveal what never is.

In what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Through a lens from faraway if you’d explain it so,

shoot a message across the distance with an arrow’s precision.

Cut it down where the body hangs from the balcony,

straddling the divide between the perserverance and the deliverance.

Toppling to one side to the wayside equates a familiar loss.

Dead and dying on either path of the question’s mark.


If I’d known better I would’ve manufactured dire weather

and remain ingrained in grains of atomized ideas.

A concept finds demise in writing when handcuffed to drawing.

Quiet motions dictate what words would never provide on their own.

Closed lips are shells that resonate over desolate,

echoing in the corridors of ghost town architecture.


A concept finds demise in writing when its meaning is limited to paper.

If we never act it was it ever really there?

Was it there?

Were we there?


In nights where vulnerability is inevitability,

I wonder if it’s possible if thoughts are spent on me.

If insecurity comes to plague stability,

are you visited by our doomed ventures to reinvent gravity?


Torched in a metropolitan’s dead skin,

littering the scarred pavement,

airplane debris is arranged into an obelisk,

taken as the prize of a futile empire,

stood tall in the town square

where all my shards are laid bare.


Art testifies to the tests of psychology,

dotting droplets of paint into the gaps of anthology.

In experience it has been seen why the act of releasing a grasp causes pause.

Reaching out too far risks imbalance.

If not concrete, visions are but imperfections of eyesight

for arching past the scope of melancholia’s inhibitions.


Ruins are that which exist in mind,

in sight,

yet out of both,

unattainable,

but close enough to cling to believing.

( ❤ Mitch)

Poetry and Honesty

Choose carefully.

Spoken unwisely,

imperfect phrases are bare as they are,

faulted in of themselves,

destined to depart in the conscious of instant gratification.


A bottle’s flood tells too much,

and when written in restraint’s absence,

an author’s dried ventricles are spent and nothing is meant.

The locked chest deals everyone out a key,

trading glances about a plastic face knowing its lack of veracity.


Loom over the artist in the glass,

begging for the aftermath,

playing games with what-ifs as tension swells in tumultuous waves.

Drop a curtain on a Hitchcock drama and away goes suspense.

The person and the pen scurry from their reflections,

strangers to one another.


To venture from the looking-flask or demand its silence

comes short of answering any inquiry to a vessel’s schematics,

as encased in continuous trauma as it now rocks,

could it or should it ever let its creaking floorboards be heard?

With rusted nails unhinged around every bend,

Noah hung his head at the inelegant schematics,

drifting in from imaginary to meet creativity’s fleeting fantasy;

two dreams meaning too much,

equaling to less in evaluation.


It’s never honest with myself yet too close for comfort.

Words conjure imagery but the memory is disintegrating.

All is chosen cautiously haphazardly.

The sole truth is a bottle is broken,

a flood is brewing,

and a captain drowns.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Loneliest First Step is Also the Last

Burned up from a departure

to reenter a grounded state,

a safety net condensed into fragments

disintegrating.

A whisper of history;

the sweet nectar of memory

ensnares delicately,

betraying the sense of suffocating

by these invisible arms.

Billowing from the fan

spinning lazily in an empty room

washed over in the heat of desperation,

it’s heard reverberating:

“you’re safe if you break.”

I mistook phantom limbs as a trampoline.

A basin widens in a crash.

If I were to ever ask

would you put trust in ash,

an answer’s unrequired;

it lies in the fragments.

This Will Self-Destruct

Would only be

brief;

a fleeting fix

to make

amends

with the

worst side of self.


Could only be

passing;

a subtle taste

to facilitate

conceding

along to

the demands of nil.


Should only be

temporary;

a frantic dance

to alleviate

collapsing

in the stress

of my triumphant worst side.

( ❤ Mitch)

Precipice

A disconnect imperceptible

breaching.

Quiet atmosphere under duress.

Suppress, suppress,

try to impress the mirror.

Sideways glares say “you’re nowhere near.”


The separation infinite.

Abyssal.

Snarled nerves violently untie.

Deny, deny,

speak to life every lie.

Distant shores murmur “you’re even further from gone.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Obstacles & Obstacles

Fire and brimstone take the wheel of imagination.

Let the devils claim the hindmost of the ensuing turmoil.

Shaken at a crumbled conscious’ failed foundation,

the saints come marching dressed in decades-old clothes,

not a day aged since captured in memory’s stone,

committed to fantasy where demons are blessed friends,

true colors henceforth cloaked in rosy-sweet prose,

thus shifting the villain to that of the writer’s own hand.

Two halves are made split between hope and concrete,

Rodin portraying agony in its barest form of observation,

with opaque faces aligned on an opposite shoulder

cast as the Greek deities to lord over tragedy’s incessancy,

aglow in marble’s beauty—a philosopher’s Trojan Horse,

for the most dependable and clearest of the given moment

never fail to be those to draw blades foremostly,

sucking dry the emotion host to reap rewards of attachment,

as the carcass is forgotten under decades of clay.

Two halves be split between a reality’s curse and wistfulness,

wishing traitors to be the friends promised prior

or at the least a lesson from which to grow as a redwood,

taller and stronger to fight back against an axe’s blow.

Yet the curse of reality dictates learning is never guaranteed.

An education in trauma comes without certain victory.

The Greek deities of melancholic prose or hateful poetic rants

come to the forest armed with bulldozers aplenty.

Caught in a divide where fractions of being are cut cleanly through

and neither perspective can be known to the other,

ensuring nostalgia will reign over insecurity’s sprawling domain,

and two halves be split to never adequately meet.

Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ Mitch

All Day in Virtual Pompeii

Arrived,

stood here

with emptiness

in the space of this

cracked hole of a maw

contorted to a slight smile

as it silently puts forth a plea

to be filled henceforth to the brim

and never drained of the sustenance,

capturing it as a permanent prisoner of cold,

to law low in atria as a gentle stream of magma,

singeing softly in blackened crevices made vacant,

for the air cluttering veins is a jagged voice of smoke,

brewing nonsense without a sense to guide proper course,

simply leaving a lingering loss that expands to block out organs,

a mass glacierized to where only passing assurance is a temporary high,

though depleted slowly and softly in barren, blackened crevices,

extinguished come the morn after when the river runs dry,

drained out in a bathroom sink to purge regret’s pull,

a crooked mirror’s eye winking through its cracks,

aware of a lack of any self-aware quality to spot,

hid under worry’s scar and penciled freckles,

marks only apparent after hesitation,

made too obvious in a judge’s gaze,

for I’ve appointed this to you,

hoping henceforth at now

in this cracked-hole maw,

you’ll fill the blank space

in twisted tongues

linked here,

arrived.