The Erasing of A Permanent Decay
Her normal journal entry
was as empty as the
promises she sent me.
Summer love sparked
a smokers cough
later gone cold turkey.
His version of romance
preferred to be known
only as the passing flask,
when cups surpassed that
half full status with watered down
tears that liked to leak;
had I been told composure was
supposed to meet symmetry
before our pores pour and
release the thirst for poor speech.
Words can't compete
with this disembodied language
taken out of anguish and
placed in the same cadence
that came demanding tolerance
of her personification as a
vain mistress; changing
raw material to high maintenance.
Don't give in.
My interest is finding rest
when I begin to shed
this winter skin,
for a fur less worn by
the warmth of a world
formed so enticing.
Gettin' rid of this forbidden
remission, won't keep the shade
from feigning it's glisten.
But not admittin' it's hidden,
could've spared the apple
the fate of being bitten.
How fitting; our jaws caught in
life's vices, dropped...
clenched fists split after forgettin'
their standard crop shovels,
and no one listened while
the seasons were diggin'
into troubled questions.
Standing on shifting sands
is, eventually, what did me in.
Step lightly.
Careful were you tread,
it may be where others come
to lay their heavy head.
Laced with everything
we never hastened to say,
this is the place where grace
can chase the gray away.
They traced it in red,
the same letters that read,
"Jesus sang to spring graves
and gave death a flower bed."
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