“Had a Hole Drilled…”
Had a hole drilled deep into the shaking framework science declared was suitable for progression in life,
notwithstanding the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething in internal, eternal decline,
ushered down the aisle as if a knot of nerves would untie itself when rolling down a rocky bank.
Comprehension is quiet behind the apathetic apathy of drifters posing as guides to lost cities:
Accept a handshake and a tug at the waist as the map and key to where Parime resides.
Confess to the condescending con-population that clutters the confines of isolation,
the painted faces of manakins belying what is under blush and bright red smiles,
set in the position of players that bowed to applause for another trick acted,
sending off the hopeful to hopeless escapades in tangled jungle’s fables:
“There is a greater purpose in promise that needs time to understand.”
Patiently forget the stains of credulous ghosts costumed in flesh.
Writhe about in nightly visitations of oaths snapped as twigs,
forever bereft of the strength it was presumed to possess.
Scramble for capsules arranged on the bedside table.
Vie to congest a widening incision with prescription.
If at its best, the stream is but limited in its scope,
yet never does it cease its eager advancement,
leaking onto sheets and disposed band-aids:
Visible distress despite lurking ignorance,
rigid versus the willfully forgetful mind,
emitting softly, always, in consistency,
slowly emptying what was never full
until all is brought to be of nothing.
Until all is fated to swift decay.
And in an unsuspecting blink,
arising to usual similarity,
it will be made
Had a hole drilled deep into the cavernous construction of uncharted tunnels leading nowhere to note,
simply the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething extracting to zero the elixir of the past,
singing the memoirs of the blue era for glorifying the loneliness inherent to productivity within art,
beautifying the parallels described as what should be warning signs of approaching instability,
though now misconstrued as the impetus of spinning wheels towards success in hindsight,
for only by collision with crooked motives is there a storied pot of gold to defy history,
where broken bones by the con-population are deserved strikes for battling truth;
the force of finding the lost by abusing the abuse incurred, glancing over trauma.
Nothing that happened was what was considered intended if ever questioned,
but in the gaze of a wounded prey observing arrow’s pricks in the mirror,
pierced defenses are the absolutes to define existence at its minimum,
recognizing finality in chasing the motivation urged in beige rooms,
characterized only by few familiar phrases in recycled delivery,
supposedly serene in sincerity’s saying to promote recovery,
now presently rendered to static rumblings exiting snakes
seeking compensation in a journey’s known conclusion,
no different than the lies of the closest confidants,
the liars, the leaders, the vultures of the desert,
dolled up in suits and dresses over beaks.
Talons poke through fabric’s guise.
Talons poke through framework.
Talons revealed in droplets
as scavengers thus leave
and bones succumb
and then to