Sprawled out across a graphic of every choice,
the roots crisscross across a chronology linked deep into veins,
every spot pocked through a dot on a line,
trudging offstage right where a darkened hallway awaits.
If each limb could speak to me now,
they’d tug back to where they called home,
having warped around the infrastructure of discarded dreams,
their endurance unfaltering when sustained by the currency of dilemma,
inventing the reasons why they should thus remain,
erupting in a mass of ironclad vines.
Lay down a torch to one route and the next is widened:
A hydra of my decisions as influenced by the currency of dilemma,
wishing the problems away while convinced their presence is my strength.
That strength sits at a nondescript desk in a crowded space,
not a single face from which a trace can be made to remembrance,
reduced to the atoms of imagination;
blank and grey with only rehearsed words to utter.
My strength rests his head down on a nondescript desk and forms a waterfall,
using the edges to cascade over the currency of dilemma,
feeding the pooling struggles,
providing nutrients for their grip,
warping around the feet of the table now firmly conquered in discarded dreams.
The strength of me comes to shrink as blank, grey faces usher it to a brink.
I bear the insults of those same phrases as though coded in universal language,
inked as a permanent stop on a passage of a life;
the tattooed stigma of never getting over ‘it,’
where the ‘it’ is among thousands of ‘it’ cropping up in legions,
smirking at futility when a rash hammer’s blow brings more to the show.
I bring down this gauntlet as if the truth I always needed
in attempt to preserve that which acts as my blood.
Though laid so vulnerable at a desk that shifts rooms
until the setting around is a senate’s stained floor,
I accept the knife wounds of wayward words as a testament to me:
To this so-called strength I’ve accepted.
To this allowance of abuse I’ve consented.
To be a number sliced into a quarter of its worth.
To turn nothing prematurely.
The swarm piles into a tower arcing miles above bloodied tiles,
using the cracks to draw a picture of adolescence,
submitted to the ensnarement of screaming vines.
You are the undergrowth dragging me down,
tucking me under a carpet of leaves,
sheltered from the rain captured by taller branches.
You are no strength to draw from the past,
nor the weapons of words that were cast.
You are a voice inside of my head
and nothing more can be given to your power.
I am he that developed from mere gas and dust,
introducing ignition to dry up a waterfall’s rampaging current.
I do not sit in the place where I began.
I do not gather strength from the mistakes I have made.
Their false embrace is a burden to wear,
but it grows slightly softer as the timeline marches onward,
walking by a desk in discarded dreams,
traversing plains not yet seen
where the path is never littered with weeds.
( ❤ Mitch)