Thursday, February 16, 2012

slowburn

I had already forgotten it once it came time to write it down. What original itch worked a hole through my still, what surprise of spark and shine withdrew me from my deepest dreams? The word itself explains away the repartee of conjecture and complaint, forgotten such a long and solemn lull in the conversation. So it began again, blank slate following the blank stare into the unknown. The dim reflection of some mad old man, head bound in tree limbs, eyes like lightning strikes. The sputter of punctuation only breath and heartbeat, here in the country of the setting sun.

You'd surprised at the names I call me, both in the severity and delusion, my gnarled discounting of the news the whole world knows. It isn't as if I deny your guesses, or gild your baser claims. There is no question that I stumbled and plundered through this life, no alibi for all this bile and riot. I swallow the pills, and chew of the notion, day wading away into gathered dusk.  I sulk and I slander, dusk burning a hole towards the night.

There's no excuse but I want you, no telling how long the meaning lies. Even the mirror knows this much, that staggering distance, that tattered limit left. Something I seem to need to tell you, not that there are reasons you would need to hear. Something about you always to remark on, as I rot and plod along. So I reach for you at the least provocation. I reach for you whenever you are not there. Something to say as the day burns down. Something to do once all there is is ash.

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