There are bruises forming between my words and my meanings. Even those that I can never grasp show the effects of the speed of my missing. From root to limb, from leaf to sky, from green to blue-- I lose a little something in the journey. And each loss leaves a mark, the brutish grip of my flawed intentions. These foolish slips rendering each flawed thought a wound. Mistakes never the less still taking.
Most are content to live by lying. The hard leaning into beliefs that change one matter into the next. Ideas that claim sides, blind men and elephant style, to edit and oblige some narrow hope or hobbled thought. Stories made about absolutes and dreams, notions clung to with more fervor than life. Hundreds of millions plunged into brutal desolation because lies are so much prettier than the truth, levers for thieves and monsters to pry away each diamond, to snatch every dollar and devour every last sop. Look on the bright side, look into the abyss-- favor whatever fairy tale you have a stake in. Pluck some aspect of desolation and smile benignly at your gorgeous error.
Though rich in luck and favored with clever and loyal friends, my portion is mostly waste and lapse. Having labored with mistaken ways, picking the wrong words and the lost causes, little was left but loss. Scratching at itches that can not be reached, the wrong flesh sings and sings. The pen grinds the paper, the fingers thump the keys. Words hung upon the line, placed out of order and out of time. I wrote it down, thinking that my feelings were what I saw. I wrote it down, thinking that I could see.
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