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.