hyperbole

There is nothing left to understand. The fingers slip, the meanings slide, bullets find their destinies seeded in these final contexts. Every appetite written away, every dream and all the rest of sleep just gone. The rites of rage and rictus, the smattering of ashes drifting down like snow. Something happens, then the world is all worn through.

I resurrect you in fingertips, in subtle midnight stirrings, branches scratching glass. I bury you in invective, in the brutal transition from thing to action, these blunt translations like kisses filled with such smooth teeth. There is no art left, no prayer, no constellation. Just the whispered convictions into air weighed down with poison. That bitter thirst, the hateful prophecy of all these days alone. This leadened atmosphere fading black, your absence keeps you here. So terribly quick, so awfully wrong. Only the rest of time that is.

There are poems of blood and thunder, fierce reckonings and rough songs. There are worshippings etched in ink and flesh. Art and longing, this broken clock of this is who we are. Sleepless nights and emptied beds and children lost forever at the whim of a phrasing of aim and intent. The words leaning so hard into oblivion, aching to fall at last in a direction, to adhere to just one law. That lamb bled so dearly, only to refuse all sacrifice. That need for reason, that lamb that will not lay down.