The house has yet to change its shape.
Vines bide their time as the roots of recollection weasel under the floors.
Painted over in a future will never erase passion.
There was handiwork in basement fantasies.
In being careless with time and the fleeting strength of youth,
I tripped along the planks and a drop of blood was anchored;
what was spent cannot then be purchased back.
We hid our best selves under the stairs in the cupboard.
“Don’t let us out, we’re too scared.”
For if they creep out under the crack in the door,
we may be forced to recognize our collision
and the fire toyed with in the fragile fingers of innocence.
It balances on a cliff’s edge in dagger eyes.
Jump off the fear and plunge inside.
Unearth the thoughts so tightly buried.
Do you reconcile now or shall it fester in the hours burning twilight down?
With a fading vinyl record scratching itself to razor marks.
the groaning of the turning reads out a forlorn letter.
Do you face it down now or shall it wait for meetings you promise to make?
But they never wander into a calendar’s page.
Carved in triptych it can’t be seen from an outside view;
a single blemish in a valley
where the rain never touched the yellowing plain.
Caught in details I always know,
where my imperfections lie on top and below of skin.
As if a continent split itself across oceans while burning life,
I see parts of assurances drift to turbulent waves.
Go bravely into the Atlantic to chase them,
but I’m always drowning in the meaning without ever clearing from theory:
the concept of math that we shattered to bits when our whole was in negative.
Do you reconcile now or do you let it sit as dust on a window’s ledge?
Never wiped clean of footprints from testing the height.
You won’t be sleeping soundly tonight.
Do you face it down now or claim awareness of fault when the faults are repeating?
The reel never closes its lens.
Shows that stop somehow never really end.
( ❤ Mitch)