… that carve far deeper than the surface,
drowning all traces of purpose…
Breaths bleed blue ‘til
inflamed passions spill red hues.
Every right to choose, but
the beaten path becomes familiar.
Tragic howls resolve to whimpers
(and we’re all taught – it’s rude
to listen to whispers).
Bitten tongue composes lies.
Broken soul breaches eyes.
Heart struggles to chant its beat,
the sole echo of delayed defeat,
as will still trembles without its pride.
“Alive” comes in many forms:
dormant pulses, social norms,
raging fleshes, and spirit storms,
but, oh, the stench of dead
cuts to the core. The
Dark One’s whores delirious,
stomp their heels of hopelessness;
choke with grips of hatefulness; and
drop their prey into the mist… with
impressions chiseled beneath the breast.
But, the wash flows down deep
with the come up, and the
rise lets new life steep
in love’s cup.
Outlines of “was” take on
shades of rediscovery.
Sketchiness develops into
layers of vibrancy, ‘til
colors of depth reflect the light which
no impression can overcome…
sadly, a realization for only some.
The fisted spoils of the spirit undone
loom in the balance
far too often for far too long, waiting
for an utterance to be heard, praying
for transforming terms to free
the broken story… to see
the allegory… to be
the love that helps the etchings fade.