And Now You Are…

In all attempts to retreat from the tide,

I see you turned about to reside in fantasies of watered-down lungs,

bent over in a decomposing spine resigned to thinned marrow.

There’s no hand to snatch an arm going under,

shrugging off the pounding as an expected conclusion’s calling.

And in a calculation of futures real or unknown,

I’d be rather found knee deep and lower still in grains,

standing you up on my shoulder blades as the sentry of your youth

when the best is tried to let it cascade into monochrome.

Like running colors washed down a leaking canvas,

I’m cradling the droplets to fix you again

were it to be possible to arrange the image exactly as it were,

but the paint you’ve chipped away never fit the same.

I remain standing to allow you to stand;

to repair what’s been torn apart to be torn once more,

for I’d sink first before watching your eyes become swallowed by the surface.

It would never fit the same,

but I’d sink fist before witnessing your grave.

It Was What Wasn’t, and is What it is Not

Fleeing light darts out of a moment.

A flash instantly integrates into history,

having captured shifting time on memory’s copper plate.


I rush to seize what attempts to disappear.

I stab at seconds with ink,

fervently hoping the emotion will dry,

for the sun will never hit your eyes as it did then,

and I cannot bear to lose more of what you were.


Clock hands chirp out desperation.

Once a grand plain of all things possible spanned from minute to second,

now minimized to the reality of brevity,

a dull tone the closing call at a shaded corner.

The chairs will never find the same position.


The conversation is a dance where steps are improvised,

the blocking an investigation into the meaning of touch

and the feeling of the sound of delicate phrases;

that which fiction have imbued with the weight of affirmation.


Evenings alone in the mirror’s glow helped rehearse the perfect lines,

straightening speech to match the idyllic view of youth,

marching into cold lakes and skipping trespassing signs as a birthright,

the consequence inconsequential.


Evenings alone erected a tall figure luminous with confidence.

Trading the reflection for the affection of a spirit that recedes into collapsing seconds,

I’m hunched over,

my arms to myself,

pressing organs together as if to squeeze out the thoughts

or to hold them in,

using fragility as a collaged solution to insecurity.

Alone in togetherness,

I’m laden with thundering nerves,

and practiced poetry lacks lips to leap from.


I will to motion but find no movement to inspire,

my fingers drumming incessantly at my sides,

hoping that anxiety will learn morse code and tap out what I can never say;

that if I could articulate my thoughts this day,

I know your flickering hair will fade,

and never again will this room see it as it were,

and never again will I know it as it were,

for a breath is ever and always temporary as time,

making the fluctuation of emotion a foregone finale.


I could confess it now,

knowing all too well how interior design functions,

though when challenged with cue cards on blank expressions,

the uneasy mind is quick to retreat to the cold it dwells in.


I travel in new steps through days,

through months,

through years,

in different ways and places,

yet I wear the shoes that stood in a quiet second.

I stab at the surface with ink.

I want what I leave behind to mean something in time.

( ❤ Mitch)

Past Selves in a Future Tense

I burnt down the past self

to fit into my fist;

to shake about in disagreement;

to shudder in its blows.

Captured the ash into amber

and wore it about my neck.

A world removed

made ever closer

as a tomorrow evades

in crimson sunsets resting.

Curled into a remembrance,

futures are but reflections

of a previous wanting

made a widow to satisfaction.

( ❤ Mitch)

For the Next Trick…

After the rest,

when the “all else” already fails

as has been proven before,

there’s only a greater fathom still unfathomed,

the depth an augmentation of a lack of reflection

for having never been invited to respective homes.


And in rest,

when the drinks are emptied out

and the masks recede for the night,

we’ve yet to reckon with what caused smashed plates,

the metaphorical we hurled into the physical

while coming undone in plain view.

Smile Wide! We’re All OK!

A price to be put on a life.

Forms shudder at the question plastered on screens

made obvious by a construction society.

From the womb, we come armed,

tongues bared as rifles to evaporate opposites,

mouths primed to be wrecking balls upon poor infrastructure.


Good soldiers tear down the fellow man,

but I was preoccupied with the value behind posturing;

the realm where disguise’s veil cannot cover,

and underneath is an unraveling of being.

I wanted to know identity when the television screen was quieted.

I wanted to witness how heroes came to life,

and how Earhart less a person and more a crash,

where the presence is trivial but the downfall is eternal.


I progress without direction,

possessing a name never spoken,

exiled to ending outside of the margins

where recollection fails to crystallize.

Tragedy is traded as commodity,

seen as a failure of construction society,

but beyond trusting nods and anecdotes,

the product is as intended.


Glory be to those that stumbled upon an expiration date.

Praise be unto our departed,

omniscient overlords of all questions.


Call it criminal to abide yet the clues are burned into normalcy.

The living are a disposable breed.

The living are a disposable breed.

It matters not when one roams and can be met.

Irrelevancy graces all that uncover the emptiness tucked under disguises.

A common heart is an invention of gilded philosophy.

The fellow man is a resource, not a breathing human.


Sold for gratification,

Leeched off for validation,

Abandoned as a husk:

Experience.


It matters not when a heart functions.

The past are cherished well after their passing.

Try to rip gears out of structures but hands become phantoms.

I am insignificance until storied as a loss,

and only then is a price revealed.

( ❤ Mitch)

Gone, Again

Reduced to harmlessness without bordering teeth.

Beyond the maw lies the delicately shrouded.

I’m trying to be more than what appears,

but the defenses that lose to the wake have no touch with words.


Brought down to bruised knees in repeating notes.

The scenery is unchanged in the accustomed noise of breakdown.

I’m wanting to be more than a contact list afterthought,

but your lips and your eyes had an agreement with disagreement.


Staring in space filled with small nothings,

the color diluted to blend into the markers of yesterday’s happiness.

I’m striving to see the side of the optimist,

but I’ve been wed to a yesterday several years in the past.

( ❤ 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)

Kindness in a Nuclear Town

To a mountaintop,

none spare a glance at a climax in Everest’s shadow.

Feeding into anxiety’s legion propagated by inadequacy,

the mental jury will take stock of all evidence.

Henceforth find oneself wanting,

striving in vain for a journey’s end now declared lacking.


The ground stood on now was trodden on before.

A home’s land was bought and sold,

and before then it belonged to fields of old.

Steps forward are never the first,

all but a camera’s flash on Holocene chronology.


Careful study has printed a label prematurely.

Forerunners for never, forever,

suppressed by the smog of history’s prior progress.

Sing out the soot but the lungs release a familiar tune.


Arching overhead in clouded heads and foregone nights,

up high sits the metric to which no leap can match;

the moon has already become mapped.

A tale is already spoke, written, disseminated, discarded,

embedded into humanity as unbending fabric.


Jealous eyes are quick to the gavel.

A hand out of the smoke is hammered back into its category.

Gold is malleable but its fame is preordained.


Jealous eyes guard their prize.

One taller than another is a threat to stability.

Gold of the spirit is malleable but the potential is an act of war.


Calculated in the mood of vengeance,

those closest round down to the furthest depth,

deconstructing the rival self for another rung on the ladder.

All hands come on deck to tie down the dreamer for dreaming too high.


Encased in a circle surrounded by wolves,

inspiration will be picked dry,

spoken, written, disseminated, discarded,

abused by embraces dressed in sheepskin.


Fight or flight versus jealous eyes,

yet the result is always equated to wanting.

( ❤ Mitch)