Weapons come undone as a stray glance empties my ammunition.
Armed with rehearsal,
I’m reminded of the cold embrace of insecurity
that possibility pierces straight through
when I dare to place a thought behind your eyes.
An unexplored galaxy lies somewhere out of observation
that no level of telescopic reality can define.
Limited to the infinite thinning tunnel of secondhand guesses,
let reason slip into the wind that sets forward poorly aimed ambitions.
Not a leg to stand on beside the crutch henceforth abused
where I dictate direction to a singular option
based off of the emotion that fails to exit from the boundaries of action.
Flowered sentences sprout the prose the ear salivates for,
ever failing to see replication in how a step forward equals a step retreating;
a wanting hand receives no return;
a plan to silence the silence nullifies all sound.
It’s turbulence in nothingness
with the apparent dismantled,
relishing in manufactured revelations
only brought to form in twilight telephone calls with loneliness on the line.
It’s a sign to be uncovered in quieted inquiries;
the understated aftermath of a carefully unbalanced conversation,
artfully articulated yet blank enough for distance.
It’s a sign to hear in music that screams connected names,
yet come the inevitable skips on wax, I’m fumbling to justify
how your little details are but the sum of their parts
and the tale they spin is what I use to fulfill the empty spaces.
It’s all I already know but refuse to truly know,
and now having sights set on the unsubstantial incorporeal,
I craft adoration for the invisible,
constructing ghosts out of deceased concepts,
living a forever pretend story immersed in allegory
where the meaning I placed into rehearsal relies on what you would never do;
what you would never say;
what you would never see;
but what I’ll always try to make,
for it’s the best I’ll be able to take:
A petrified crutch on a maimed limb.
It won’t last much longer.
( ❤ Mitch)