A Collective Lack

I awoke to the familiar sight:

A glow discarded;

forever absent.


Unlike most

that inhabit a spinning globe eternal,

what orbits instead is the motionless monochrome,

swarming about as locusts upon the frail.


I rose up with both shoes on the wrong foot;

a daily routine of mounting fatigue

while waiting for a guiding call.

Yet stood in a dull morning’s bright,

I feel no rays

in the loudness of an empty chair.


Coffee grounds,

recycled smiles;

twig limbs to a blaze losing its hunger.

I know it’s far,

far from enough.


Barely held to a thread

that another hand once shared,

until all at once I felt a fabric tighten

in your silent escape to nothing.


What I’d give

just to follow.

What I’d give

just to know.


If I fall slightly deeper,

I might just see your fading glow.

Should I stumble around the rocks at the bottom,

I might just manage to dig you out.


Rather fail to see a sunrise

to avoid the familiar sight:

My corpse of a life trudged into the light

that has become ever so bleak

in your resonating absence.

~

❤ Mitch

You Blinked, and We Miss It

How and when is immaterial.

The infinitesimal permeates in sleep

when eyes remain open but far from waking,

a vision in slumber wed to transcripts

as rain gently strokes the surface;

the blurred becomes ever more obscured in time’s marching.

Yet the music pounds in eardrums,

supplanting static when silence abounds.


Stray glances burn deep into my desire to disappear from modernity,

examining the smiles I learned to treasure by the time they began to crumble.

This car is destined to halt somewhere.

There are boundaries to where thought can persevere,

locked into the restraints of human fallacy and the irony of affection.


If I held a hand up then to speak;

to infuse into the reality of decomposition,

whether memory would hold dear or falter is a question unanswered,

the only hints towards understanding embodied in the photos never taken.


Swallowed by impressions,

the color evacuating from the light,

what’s left to behold is an abandoned canvas,

the melted ichor of youthful imagery the fuel hindsight acquires.


Drawn up on the blankness is everything to nothingness;

a monument to the mobile immobile,

injecting theatrics to the unmovable past that rejects all advances,

though ever so inviting in the possibilities ever unexplored.

I can paint a road for which the memory can follow.


Departed from the current is where I am found,

chasing down meadows of bright flowers blooming endlessly

as if the sun held the moon in a stranglehold,

suffocating the dark from all edges of this condition of being.


It will never come to reason that the occurred cannot occur again.

Eraser stains only cause the dust of mistakes to resonate,

the murky fringes expanded across the page.

All that I could be then is what I can never meet.


Concentrated solely on the temporal archaic,

I stay asleep with eyes open wide,

willingly unaware I inhabit decayed landscapes,

shaking hands with the friends I wished never left.

~

❤ Mitch

Oh No, Daylight

“Oh No, Daylight”

It could have been there

between the cracks of conscious and unconscious breath.

Somewhere traded in the lips of ghosts,

I’ve traversed a bridge to link wayward spirits.

For a moment in the drama behind closed eyes,

I dress a stranger in vibrant colors

and swallow the rainbow to sustain.


It could have happened out there,

a street passing Infinitesimal to our selfish selves.

Stares only grazed skin’s surface,

the mind never truly knowing its neighbors.

Yet for seconds ephemeral in the bright of the dark,

tangled nothings shed cloth

and drink in the passion to sustain.


A question lingers unsaid

as the cracks in the blinds expose the film.

In the shine of day,

I swear I saw you there

caught walking in the halls.


A thought invades in haste

when transient is seen for what it is,

even when there’s a knock

that I swear was real.


Would you stay or would you drift?

Would you share this fountain

passed back and forth

to sustain?


It could have been there

as she exits from an ear to its opposite.

It could have been there

once the mirage bleeds into desert sands.


Understood in quiet, morning hours,

I comprehend the stranger made confidant in a fleeting touch,

gently caressing the elegance of the unfamiliar.

Is it out of my hands to pull down the allure from the unreal?


Perhaps it is best to forget the fabricated.

Wounded heads speak in screams when isolated to bed.

If only I was able to say goodbye.

~

❤ Mitch