The Living Shield, pt. 3

A corpse limps from the caverns of the room.

The cold by my side lingers.

His expression is an obscured slate,

no face visible beyond a wayward morality.


Crawling down the back of my neck and toying with my nerves,

a quiet voice enters the space,

offering a plain request:

Fix a foe who has passed into an unknown.

Defy the mechanics of death itself when exposed to an unprepared mind.

I can care not, for I have no power.


Save a life that has flickered out of time and into memory,

torturing a spirit too young to comprehend.

I can care not, for I know not the way.


Seeping silently out of a growing agony,

a storm begins its invasion of innocence.

Wind races about,

bounding off of the tiles,

the gusts of a mounting anger forming an immovable object

stained with the recollection of trauma on repeat,

the tragedy that makes a boy a soldier,

and a soldier into a hollowed bearer of a scythe

swinging wild at anything that crosses its path.


Here is where the crosshair comes to focus.

Through the hole it makes in my chest,

I see a sniper’s aim straight to my allegiance.

True or not, it is no difference;

The risk is emanating from a towering boy

turned killer by circumstance.


Let it find its match in this room.

I am the palace walls that have yet to fall.

I am the barrier that sustains the life behind.

I am the one with a purpose to find,

a promise to keep,

a word to abide by.


Use everything that you care to use.

Your ambition will land on the shield I create.

As a hurricane finds purchase in unbridled ire,

routes are shuttered at their escapes.

Found in the range of a reaper’s ceaseless lust,

what’s left to consider is to hold fast in the soil

and fight for the secret all too transparent.

gon vs pitou Eng Sub - YouTube
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 2

Colder than a whisper of Hell,

a presence emerges from the gates.

No more than a child yet with a devil’s might

and a devil’s care for collateral damage,

with a crosshair unwavering from my chest

and the last objective I’ve to fulfill.


History screams in a voice barren of negotiation

as the innocent are pulled from the sidelines into the firing squad.

No more can be given.

I’ve become a husk for the sake of another

at the direction of a beloved.

No more can be given but a plea and a promise.


Never is there to be harm upon the casualty of our collision.

If there is blame to be had in the name of the past,

take this ruptured arm for the trophy of your rage

and step away from the secret.


Doubt has been made alien to me at the threat of defeat.

My conviction is singular and your intent is a flying spear.

Away from these walls, you may guide me away,

but it is never to be if a stray scratch adorns this frame I tend to.

An errant action will be off with your head.

I’ll swear this upon the second promise I can make:

Guide me away, but spare the spare,

whose only fault was to be stuck in our middle.


Lay not a finger.

I swear on this:

Upon her first breath I will meet your history

and the score shall settle itself in due course.

Nestled in the nadirs of a concealed arena,

this can all be brought to its end.


At your demand I am forced to abide,

seeing her body flinch as it awakens to the world,

seeing the finality that rests in a devil’s immobile stance.


Should you find a way through me, I now come to fear:

What of the king miles away?

Drowned in the bleak battle that’s assured by your power,

that which I care for most now finds itself out of balance

and I feel duty awaken anew inside.

Hunter x Hunter (2011) – A closer look at Gon vs Neferpitou – blautoothdmand
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 1

That which captivates your gaze has shifted.

It’s in the dying embers of imperial dreams,

fading from where once a fire was in your eyes.

Frigid tones emerge from the mouth of a conqueror

who once commanded flames at the tip of his tongue.


In the raining of artillery blows,

that which captivates your gaze has fallen,

set to expire on the outskirts of an existential plight,

and it is here where you have placed me.


Foes at the gates race about the desolate grave of humanity,

yet here is where I am placed to remain,

as a motion from the other side finds its momentum

and the turbulence casts you to a distant fate.

How am I not to charge into the same destiny?

Are you to forget the purpose to which you have been assigned?


Caressing in the hold of a spell,

I vie for a meaning in a lesser that has found a gilded domain,

replacing a king’s colony with something cloaked in gray,

defying the resistance and the clarity of our vision,

rendered black and white perfectly at conception,

now scattered into a separate sense of self.


Mending a fractured figure in the hold of my spell,

I recall the swords shot straight from your irises—

The final act of command delivered into my hands,

the consequence illustrated plainly in undressed words.


In her small form lies a secret.

I find myself close to finding a secret

and the reason your life has swayed.


It was duty from birth to sacrifice for the greater good.

It will be duty now to sacrifice for your greater self,

protecting the reason for marching into obscurity

where my hope for your safety descends from my grasp.

What I would pour out for you I will pour out for her.


Every reservoir drained.

Every channel unleashed.

Let the power exit me or let me wither.

No future is gilded until I see your light stand again.


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(I do not own this image)

( ❤ Mitch)

Lend the Rope, I’ll Tie the Knot

Hang the outlier.

Take this on the authority of a liar,

for a liar I am and out beyond the lines.


With the bark and the nail and the hammer in the back,

raise the marauder among the ranks,

further into the sky with arms outstretched

for now having the allure of a beautiful potential, preparing to embrace.

The secret behind the fear in the clouds is theirs to behold.

By chance it could be a plunge into the everlasting shadow—

The infinity of nothing in all its lack of glory.

By chance it could be a reach into the fabled story of eternity—

The unending reality of never feeling worry.


Hang the outlier and hang them high,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I am and far too assured to falter.


A balloon around the wrist and a cannonball for the ankle.

I’ll take these tokens of friendship,

wear them proudly upon my fragility

as the matching consequence to the sensitivity underneath my frame.

No concrete domain opens to the approach of years.

This is a guarantee placed on a gambler’s word.

The bridge could fold on its own design and unravel out of time.

A construct so clear finds obscurity in the throes of uncertainty,

with the certainty itself hiding in direct sight.


Hang the outlier and hang them tight,

for I’ve heard on the authority of a liar,

and the liar I stay and deluded to veracity.

A hollow mark for the efforts never made and never meant,

for there was never a chance to reach for clarity.

No space was left to consider an alternative.

The lashes on these joints and the hand on my throat

bear one at fault only, and I can’t meet his eyes.

*

( ❤ Mitch)

Manifest Nothing

Gray expanse cluttered with industry and broken wheels.

I read in a book and had it placed in my head that it’ll take me somewhere someday.


The words tumble out the same as they always have;

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

wilting violently in the heat of a southern sun.


Every bump on the path is laid with no intention beside potential derision

as a puppet master shakes their head at the twisting of their name.

Grit those teeth and keep blood below the boiling point

because there’s said to be promise beyond the flat green totality.


And it screams in the radio when a different song is playing,

or in the hum of the engine struggling to deal with the potholes:

The everlasting beckoning of a dream that’s not there;

A future that’s rusted around its waist.


These passing structures attest to a past that is drifting by.

The white of the cold months wipes the dull slate clean,

readying for a year of conquest with the return of the most vacant bright color.

In a cycle it turns in time with the shifting of the night;

A repetitive fable of a place set in nowhere with an aspiration for somewhere less.


Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

sinking dispassionately in a heap of southern sand.


The gray stretches on, having no limitations on its sprawling limbs,

Every nondescript station a dot on a broader horizon as exhaust climbs higher.

Submerged in a quiet desperation do I find my numbing mind,

the details that were never there magnified in their empty scale.

I swear at this point I must have been a passenger to every tree in the land,

their bark the conduit of the hollow myths currency is traded for.


This rust is rubbing off onto the fabric of these bones.

There’s no boundary to the sky so there’s no telling why I saw an end to the stars.

The roaring nothing is never lost on my ears.

( ❤ Mitch)

Metric Explanations of Decomposition

I was always worried this room would stay small,

and I’d never know how until the end of it all.

The stray sharp edge was enough of a reason

when the reaping came by every season.


Raise the curtain and let the spotlight poke through,

the yellow bright shining on the caverns under my eyebrows.

It’s another day making love to a make-up kit,

making up a made-up expression to make a false perception.

Read off the notecard tucked under the mirror as the bad shapes reappear

and repeat after the repeat that this is not defeat:

These are only the days that fall short of expectation when set too high,

the constructed sun of last night’s promises singeing ambitious wings.

A nonexistent ring is a victim of an unbalanced floor raised to the second story,

the roof locked in, forced to complacency by owner’s hand.


The faults in the foundation never left the bathroom mirror.

The cracks in the framing were always on the decaying expression.


I remember walking through the passages in this ghost-town of a house,

never noticing the process of the walls as they had become so tall.

So suddenly it seemed that scorched limbs were backed against shrinking borders.

With a back perpetually against a brick face,

I’ll place blame on the runaway builder,

tucking behind the shovel, the scythe, the tools of the trade,

forgoing the plan of questioning the lines carved in the concrete.


The faults in the foundation had been there for the entirety.


The reason of it all at the end of it all runs in the wooden veins of my frame.

This space so small when at the final bow was the construction of these hands.

Like a planet orbiting, the place where I was will always return in the passage of time,

And spinning as fast as I was, trying to get dazed and fall out of order,

I got my wrist stuck on a stray edge and felt the floorboards creak.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Force and the Object

These shades are drawn but I see everything.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted by someone else.

This veil of comfort swallows me whole.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted by someone else.


And in our twisting geometry, we occupy this space,

filling every corner with what cannot be erased.

Every brush disguised—I never really knew

when lips were moving, all they reaped was white noise.

Let’s call it beautiful and play into our fears.

We searched the atlas of us and scraped against the edges.

Counting the lines lining up and down these arms

with crossed fingers hoping the math will favor us.


Those eyes are wandering but I see where they go.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to be wanted to know that he can.

This blank assurance leaves me hanging on.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to be wanted by anyone else.


Lay down your past and think only one name.

If you can break every frame that lurks behind

I promise the same—I have nothing to keep.

I need only one name and only three words.

Drown this love in ink and I’ll soak it up, every phrase,

holding to the dots and crosses as my lifeboat.

With the familiar eroding beneath me,

I leave myself with only one destination.


Confide to me it’s safe—tell me it’s not too soon.

Tell me you feel the same and we’re defying our self-made flaws.

Tell me you feel the same—tell me this is reality.

Pinch the marks and feel no more pain.


I’ll tell you what you want to hear, I’ll tell all.

I’ll tell all when you’re wrapped around my chest.

With the exit locked and a moon hanging over,

close the blinds and pretend the moon never sets.


Those hands are tracing and getting dangerous.

She says she wants to be wanted.

She wants to be wanted to remember the taste.

This mass of chances was never meant to mean.

He says he wants to be wanted.

He wants to hear what he’ll never hear.

Not in this room.

( ❤ Mitch)

No-Man’s Land

I’ve been bleeding over the corners of my pages.

My body’s leaking ink and heading straight for the drain.

The spectators clap at the familiar spectacle,

checking off the dates until the next episode.

How bold it was for you to wrap me up in tape.

Thought gaping holes were only papercuts.

But the sirens were wailing all the way to warn of a mistake.

Yet you stayed behind.


I’ve been feeling less of myself—I think I lost it.

The blueprints of my image were youthful fantasies.

In that smile—the power of the rising sun,

and I could paste it over those old photographs.

You read the coded lines after I smoothed over my creases.

When there was a reaching out, you were reaching in.

Two figures spinning intertwined screaming, “Hallelujah,

we’ve found the place to reconcile our demons.”


For this pool of swirling phrases was close to your door.

The footprints you left behind traced every motion forward.

The ghosts were knocking at the door and you spurned their return

by trusting a faulty dam to hold them back.

If that’s destiny then I suppose this is our lot:

Broken and when pieced together, worse than how we started.

But when our fingers brush past I’ll pretend I can forget,

If you pretend that you can never leave.


We’re digging deep down in our foxholes, holding out for the rain.

The acid on our tongues will be enough to quiet doubt.

This is a makeshift forever story, so as we’re staying put,

We might as well be good to our promises.

This can be the hill we die on—these trenches mark our graves.

So we might as well be good to our promises.

( ❤ Mitch)

Shaded

Sweet scent of nectarine,

my personal heroine.

Why don’t we drown together

in the glow of the spring?


Vibrant ceramic skin

clothed in nature’s embrace.

Can I share this fabric

and tease a way in?


Caressing somewhere between the trees

the potent needle of nostalgic euphoria.

Eardrums were ringing, awash in the sound

of separate parts becoming a whole.


And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every face I see.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through memory.


Falling, colored leaves

tangled in our grasp.

Should we climb together

above the branches?


Find privacy from the vines,

the avalanche of dying things,

gasping for sunlight to feed our roots

to bring this kiss to life.


Caressing somewhere between the trees

the thought of someone once known.

Veins were pounding, drugged to the sound

of steady beats racing to infinity.


And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every hand I hold.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through all the letters.


Sensations pulse to the forefront of my fingertips

as the motions pass through this empty chest.

I feel a change buried deep inside.

But the image blurs—

it’s fading to fog,

the dust begins to cascade down.

The snow around these parts is a bitter taste:


Bitter sap in veins,

feel bitter on tongues,

feel stings that poke and prod like knives.

No path left among the bedlam

and the leaves keep falling,

the leaves keep falling.


And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it with a name.

And I try to repeat, repeat it,

repeat it in a frame.


And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat as you said.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it when you’re gone.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hello, Everyone!

Wow! I just wanted to say thanks to all of the individuals that have followed my blog over the past few days. I know it’s not much, but it is very incredible to me, a very obscure writer, to suddenly witness over 40 people join me on this journey. Being able to post here frequently and receive such wonderful attention is amazing; I couldn’t be happier with how this has started out. It is small growth, to be sure, but the current progress that has been made is very encouraging.

What happens now? I’m going to keep plugging away at what I do here. I’m looking into getting some additional assistance to get this domain a bit more presentable. I believe it looks fine as it stands, but I’m not an expert when it comes to crafting websites and would love to upgrade it to an even greater level. Beyond that, I’ll continue to look into other online publications I can use to submit my pieces and, ideally, grow the following I’ve amassed here. If I could manage to reach a 100 followers by the end of the year, I’d consider that an immense victory. That’s probably unrealistic, so in all honesty, whatever I end up with, I will be satisfied with it.

Once again, thank you very much for stopping by! I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read my poetry. If you’d like, you’re always welcome to leave a comment or two; I’d love to chat with all of those that are stopping by here. I can promise that I do not bite! I had to go through years of braces, I’m not going to ruin my teeth that way.

Much love,

Mitch ❤