It stares back with a laugh like malice.
Rapid-fire grins shot against demand,
straight across the bow at sundown,
prepared to blockade exits in a hedge maze,
thorns stood to be sentries in solitude.
Encased in monochrome elegance around whatever surface,
colorless in the eternal reel of the past,
bending to attach across any expanse of progress
lest its unshakable presence does battle with forgetfulness.
Temptation laced with nostalgia’s aroma,
lacing dalliances in quicksand,
twisting about at the threat of finding where the particles go,
yet alone in desire’s thought to plunge and discover.
Consumed by the weathered discard of nowhere lands,
tasting descension in its bitter embodiment.
Enamored by and kept at the behest of misery’s scent,
matching to the enthralling throes of scratched forms.
The pain is the beauty to understand.
The beauty is the sour grace of going under.
The mangled knee is consequence.
The lesson is in circumstance.
Find it in propaganda tongues taped to billboards,
towering monoliths of the mausoleum to shrunken ambition.
Witness the eras erupting between a smile and the present.
Define the error in sallow cheeks,
drugged to Hell and back,
less color than the last,
less color in the next,
where within withered a will to survive.
The pain is the beauty of observation;
an exodus of being caught in the crevices.
The pain is the beauty of understanding
what happened was the glory that can never be returned.
It will linger but in distance, separated.
The glory is the best
and it has already gone.
( ❤ Mitch)