… for a drop of blood

“… for a drop of blood”

Sourness is brilliance misunderstood;

or so it seems when the fantastical is robbed of the magical,

supplanted with wayward, youthful idealism.

Broken backs over the coffee table

are the reminders of an affectionate touch,

like a bull’s dedicated horns piercing surgically through the abdomen.


I’ll tattoo these if the scars start to fade,

tracing leaked fluid on pages as cherished mementos,

shedding weight by the ounces of blood cried for loss.

Gloss over in reds and purples to cloak the diminished sum.

Tally up to win when victory is a love letter’s fantasy.

The irrational rationalizes come the invasion of isolation.


Wasn’t it good when everything was good?

Rosey eyes paint flowering depictions of bitter pictures.

Weren’t we perfect when it clicked out of shape;

a frame of scattered objects jagged enough to ever break?


And I held your tongue at the tip of my teeth.

Do we dare to speak and reveal what passion hides?

An arm roughly revolved behind in a gesture of control,

so willingly bent to be at the knee of the beloved opponent.


A voiceless plea cries out somewhere subdued in shallow motions,

stuck between the nonexistent space crafted by colliding motives.

Survival of the most ill fitted to survive

as guaranteed by our mutually conflicting alibies:

The feast is the sustenance on which we preserve

and for which we can justify a lack of loneliness inside

despite the moments when the pangs surge into consciousness

when the onset of realization announces its advance.


Another ride too close to the sun’s arms

while failing to stitch up the singes of relief,

bursting out in sighs that confuse content with conquest.


Placed in front of the promise of voyages to the uncharted,

surrounded by the unrelenting gray that intrudes by the day,

I’d go to hold your tongue at the tip of my teeth

and swallow back the words I actually want to say.

It’s easy enough to lose count of my shattered bones.

One more cracked on the table can’t hurt after all.

~

❤ Mitch

Contemporary Grief

Gray weather reports are out of man’s hand.

The winds shift at an unknown beck and call.

Terror may endeavor to swallow whole,

as too often are we found in the sorrow of others

and the fatigue of attrition wars.


Led by fable to believe one held the world,

one swung the strings,

one dictated the direction of things.

Led by history’s choreography in archaic tongues

to support a roof in flames with two wavering arms,

burns categorized as the earnings of perserverance.

The dust of ground teeth be saved in caskets,

tied up along the windowsill:

The ultimate finality of our diminishing sum.


Here then does the precipice loom between ascension’s descension,

claimed a fool’s selfish dagger misguided,

yet stood in opposition is the antidote to scorch marks;

allowing a roof to realize its cave-in scheme

and release from the burden of upholding the improbable.

In this are we untimely aligned in contemporary grief,

contemplating in consequence to the frailty of folding hearts,

unfulfilled by drained demand,

told to sit still in nervous episodes;

to shove limbs into pockets and contain a raging storm.


Shrouded in conventional mystery,

tiny teeth tombs total the toll of mutual ignorance

afforded to those without soot on their shoes,

clung to by those sitting still for fear of a push away.


The weight is feared,

so none dare to share anguish,

seeing necessity for comprehension as an unbalanced trade

where pain only transfers, merging into one.

The question is illusive,

so none dare attempt to offer an answer,

concealing instead in empty, smiling words and bootstraps.


In this are we secured unlovingly in contemporary grief,

taught to bear troubles in seclusion,

though unavoidably colliding headfirst with the reality of breakdown,

flailing in the changing seasons,

unexpectedly altered in the throes of modern life.


Alone as determined by circumstance,

the weather of the day is seen as a personal fault,

and it is carried alone,

out of sight,

until eroded in attrition wars,

untimely.

~

Mitch ❤