Penciled arteries are smudged over,
turned too often in shaking hands,
steady once in a simpler, prior era.
Preserved ink is a breath away from shattering,
sentences with the fragility of glass,
details absent seconds after an utterance.
The body abandons first,
as is predictable in passages;
the unfortunate truth of understanding unknowns
beckons with a price tag attached.
It’s the betrayal of the mind that hurts,
never expecting to succumb to blank slate photographs
that themselves will be rendered to less.
It’s the crumbling interior of consciousness,
matter escaping into bottomless drains through cracks in clasped hands.
We may only take so much when we begin to leave,
and palms are made empty come the violent/unviolent ending.
Come back quickly if you could.
Return swiftly if it pleases.
I feel a fear for who becomes the next target,
and I’ve begun to forget your face.
( ❤ Mitch)