Gone, Again

Reduced to harmlessness without bordering teeth.

Beyond the maw lies the delicately shrouded.

I’m trying to be more than what appears,

but the defenses that lose to the wake have no touch with words.


Brought down to bruised knees in repeating notes.

The scenery is unchanged in the accustomed noise of breakdown.

I’m wanting to be more than a contact list afterthought,

but your lips and your eyes had an agreement with disagreement.


Staring in space filled with small nothings,

the color diluted to blend into the markers of yesterday’s happiness.

I’m striving to see the side of the optimist,

but I’ve been wed to a yesterday several years in the past.

( ❤ Mitch)

Porch Sounds

How did it come to be that the voices of these streets

faded into fleeting recollections of echoes?

Figures once set in place move freely about the board,

leaving traces in blurred snapshots a thousand words cannot describe.

Like shifting clues into place, I’m matching facades to faces,

scrambling from context as memory drains itself to a desert state.


It used to be so simple, so perfectly simple

to find a friend behind every frame.

One knock and the day erupts in motion.

And now it feels so desperate, split across and made separate.

Knocks go unanswered.

There’s no time to answer.


Perching on the throne of metalwork recreation,

we declared ourselves kings of the forest and a second could never age us.

Somewhere along the lines between holding onto youth and expectation,

the cracks opened miles wide and I’m afraid we’ve all fallen deep inside.


Looking upon mud and twigs where grand designs once stood,

staring out into a stranger’s backyard, chasing sounds of familiarity.

How did it come to be we ended up alone

after struggling so hard to reconstruct our disassembled bodies?


Molded by this potent nurture do these drones march to practiced beats.

Punch in the cards, sever the throats, leave selves at the door.

I sit nursing my faulty machinery watching days move without me.

There’s not a name to turn to anymore.

Hereby all are declared null and void—let succumb to black scratches.


If this is the triumph of expectation then only one lesson is to be found,

and there’s just a single story to describe from moving signs.

Spend time wisely, spend time well, but the moments do pass.

You’ll crash down.


Dreams used to be so vibrant in past years.

It was so easy to picture in color.

Let spin the calendar globe and the ink runs dry.

The revolution breathes the words unwanted.


Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

Everything you love will vanish.

( ❤ Mitch)

Sunset in Rose

A little hole in the head is all that is necessary.

A little weight off the wallet is enough for a commitment unconsidered.

Whether it’s a trick of the mind or a will of the heart,

there will always be time to take the plunge through the brush and the thorns.


And they’re all standing lined up at attention:

A resurrected skeleton crew set to dance to a familiar tune.

They’re tapping away on a stage worn down through cycles of esteem.


There’s a hit;

Something starts to snake up my veins.

There’s a hit;

No structure remains below my feet.

There’s a hit;

Illustrations bleed into the real.

There’s a hit, there’s a hit, there’s a hit.


When the stream is cleared out of the drained reservoir of these irises,

a stretch of fabric be tossed onto the surface—

The glorious red-carpet affair of the drama of yesteryear’s last year,

and the ensuing anticipation of the continuing coincidence of matching plots.


Never before has the envelope gone sailing off the edge, thusly it is claimed,

as the curtain covers the constant truth of the all-apparent status quo.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and pretend the things that are there have long disappeared.

It’s a ploy to pry the wandering thought from clutching to a persistent memory,

reanimating the undead for their timeless ritual on their timeless platform,

providing motion to emotion as if their limbs are forged in fire and iron,

everlasting in ages and the shifting of geography.


The oceans can swell and change their tides or push off the lands of dreams.

It never circumvents the incoming hit.

There will never be safety from the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

Direct the blocking made so familiar in the quiet knocking of trauma

as the tally marks reappear across the abdomen—

Yesteryear is back on the headlines.


Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and declare the decisions fed in your ear by a whispering ghost.

She’s making promises with her fingers tied in knots,

tucking her full hand around the waist.

The theatrics roar at the sound of a snap

and I feel a hit.

( ❤ Mitch)