Every Page Unwritten

He lit a candle in a cave untouched through years,

where only photo book reminders colored the sides.

Written down in the margins of coy messages mailed between desks,

something resonated in the angles and the threes.


Even if the letters shrink in the knocking of aging,

you’re cuddled up near the ghost of an ash pile’s warmth.

It was a thought prepared to take up arms when a mind rejected.

Now all that rests is a heart dotted with wax stains.

( ❤ Mitch)

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.

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)

Scream the Pharmacy Blues

Steel greets its wielder.

Cold precision gathers heat in passionate strokes.

It was some time before the prior return.


Prickling problems propagate perpetually.

The self-surgeon traces anatomy in red lines,

dissecting stray letters from lungs as legacy.

Da Vinci takes the wheel

and the poet is strung up, naked, chained,

bound to the paper once disposable

now imbued with intangible meaning,

with the author holding the keys to the locks to his wrists.


It clears a crowded mind to swipe at the rioting thoughts.

A point’s prodding touch comes as mercy,

what the devil’s advocate would advertise as the antidote,

taking measures in scratches.

Inevitable relapse.


A rubber band snaps at the trigger’s pull.

Half-hearted remedies earn only an eighth of grace.

Diminishing rewards,

increasing costs

form a nascent mountain

erupting from flat ground.

Struggle to the apex on the unforgiving surface,

or strike horizontally against the high road,

cheating by recommendation to the masochist’s fix.

The burn is a worthwhile reminder of humanity.


Between crushing realities of failure and forfeiture,

a handful of red lines never caused a tremor.

A searing heat comes as a comforting friend.


Dull bathroom light’s glow

reads road maps in morse code.

Insert to spell grief.

Hit for trauma.

Pain illuminates itself in a mirror’s shame.

A burn wipes the slate clean.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)