In on the Target

Come to find an encroaching storm with vultures in the wake.

Come to find a caved-in complex, left to tend to future injury.

As the thunder rains down beaks to pick and chew,

I smell a rat

somewhere festering amidst the ruin.

Bring down a hammer on the character I play.

Say the phrases so painstakingly chosen to say.

Slither forth, bark your independence, but it won’t own you.

Blank home faces are all we are and we are carried all the same.

Come to find our carcasses enshrined in eager wings.

Come to find an abandoned ship left to aimlessly sink itself.

The water runs from a man-made breach,

and I smell a rat,

somewhere keeping my head low.

Try to run but I’ve got claws buried in sidewalk cracks.

Those phrases so painstakingly chosen to say

will whistle through consciousness in each strained step.

Shift in time but the character you play won’t age a day.

Not in my eyes.

Come to find bones bled to dry and shine in perfect white.

All the same it is ended to be with no regard to betrayal.

Passing through halls, catching a glance,

and I smell a rat

entrenched in the hollow of your chest.

I see a rat

crawling wreckage to wreckage.

Wave your hammer round and round but I won’t collapse.

Wield the weight of vitriol but I don’t shatter.

Lightning bellows from the marching clouds gathering ever closer.

In one strike the vultures spiral thousand at a time.

Shout above the whirl of wings but recognize this:

Push me under, I’ll drag you down.

Push me under, we’re bled empty either way.

(<3 Mitch)


Parched throats refuse to scream,

drinking the dust from craters,

watching the knives cut the blue out of the sky,

wrapping up the mushroom heads for the new bleak horizon.

Roaring treads is the dominant fashion trend,

parading through the common ruin of immolated dreams.

A stray bark and onlookers collapse on command.

Roll their bones to the floor to pave the path forward:

An infrastructure comprised of bleeding architecture.

And yet palms still stretch to rise above the wake of a ticking clock,

their pain on display, their eyes begging for storms,

a deluge to wipe the slate clean and knock the blades out of orbit.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back with ambivalence.

Painted boards and battle cries

never pierce past blue screens,

but the reach of ignorance crosses over every deconstructed domain.

Find purchase in the soil to double down versus the trauma machine,

but it only needs a simple wave to pull hearts asunder.

The home that screams the loudest is the next to be demolished.

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

Fire, fire arching overhead.

Fire, fire straight into the lines

and blank out their eyes.

The march of empty feet still proceeds through the hail.

A procession files neatly into cracked wooden caskets,

as the ones lost to erupting cars find a funeral in the flash.

No justice to claim despite living under this cause,

where there’s a promise of hope and a promise of solace through nothing but faith.

But what of the ones with graves unmarked,

the stones set in place by those using your name?

Their limbs are cracking under layers of earth churned out by this machine,

fingers clawing to reach to the sky.

But past all of this fear and all of this loss,

past sermon and sacred and service and safety.

Past stratosphere and stars,

an empty throne stares back, ambivalent.

( ❤ Mitch)

An Abyss Was Mirrored Back

Keep ever so quiet now.

There’s a thought bubbling towards the surface.

Hear it float on the whim of soundless yelling voices.

Keep them ever so quiet now.

The path is wrought with vines.

Collapsed bones manifest in the undergrowth.

A stray dream chases me to the weeds,

forming a home in dirt with soil my warm blanket.

Inhale, relax, let the tender touch soothe,

lest the screen be pulled away and the ruse revealed.

Several fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a ladder tall enough to rise.

These clouding fears are crowding up and diving down,

reversing motion, burrowing deeper now,

searching for a route to overcome,

falling fathoms below and still more to come

until there can’t be a hope great enough to believe.

Content to be without a match to strike,

I may sit here and tally the days away in shadows and silence,

Restlessly tied to the traces that remain

of any desire to grasp for a rung.

Their desperate hands stretch through sinew,

marking their claws and sharpening their teeth,

making skin a cave painting of past mistakes.

Hear them call—climb higher, bring rope,

climb further, be greater.

Subdue, diagnosis, keep them ever so quiet.

See the last rays to peak over the edge.

Convince the eye it’s a trick of the mind.

( ❤ Mitch)


Take flight at the first sign of fear.

“Go forth” said the makeshift martyr, “find peace in escape.”

There’s a promise in every promise buried under their cost.

Pay no mind—find comfort in staying lost.

I’ll sit here in this chair with the legs entrenched in gaping holes,

a will to motion and movement decaying.

My back is stitched, made one with the fabric.

Threads run deep and intertwine with my spine,

transforming two into one without a thought to call their own.

Does it even really concern the world when it’s known the land is scorched?

Fires are rising outside of the window,

so stay inside and draw the blinds ever tighter.

This view of ours grows so much narrower,

so stay inside and scream within the chamber.

Feed off the feast of failure portrayed on a daily cycle.

It lingers far from the front porch,

safely secluded in the mind’s comfort,

not once crossing into a dangerous state of being.

I rest circadian-esque on apathy’s perch,

all motivation tucked into a forgotten corner of consciousness.

The bed is a shield against the mounting truth.

I’ll make a coffin out of the sheets,

nailing down the edges to seal inside the strain of care that remained.

It’s far too hot outside these days anyway.

It’s far too painful to believe in a future anyway.

Fires are rising outside of the window,

so stay inside and draw the blinds ever tighter.

This view of ours grows so much narrower,

so stay inside and scream within the chamber.

The screams are rebounding.

( ❤ Mitch)

Where Everyone Never Knows Your Name

Extended hands reach out to find the air waiting near.

These fingertips are piercing through nothingness with a face;

thought I felt a calming pulse mirroring my pace.

But it’s been said that I say too much about faulty machinery—

Gears turning becoming caught on memories reversing.

It can all reset when I pretend the smile is back.

Signals ring far to search for a voice’s calm blanket,

having been sparked by desire to discover the comfort assured.

Found a complacent companion was what you preferred.

But it’s been said I place value unfairly in these perspectives

where hope is bet on a gesture meaning more than appearances.

It can all be discarded come the moment thereafter.

Noticed the expanding length of the steps needed between,

with days diminishing in the interlude of refusing speech;

considered it a lesson only distance could teach.

But it’s been said I expect too much when giving too much,

feeling skin and soul sink in creases I never perceived prior.

It can enjoy ignorance when I claim there’s nothing there.

And it’s been said in seconds present and the seconds passing

there was only a husk in place since the beginning,

Bouncing along cobblestone lanes, bearing no weight,

managing invisibility in clear view with a gasping throat,

words blocking all notes, cutting protest and forcing rest,

having no will to utter a sound—only fear of the consequence.

The only true thing is the only thing never said,

left to hang in the air like smog filling my lungs.

I could only ever come alive with glasses held high,

appearing in those eyes like having been dead otherwise.

One moon killed by the sun and the crowd moves on;

a new morning to signify that ghost of a friend was gone.

When the choking grows too loud—smoke billowing out,

the shoulders promised turned tail and fled.

I called it a sign and brought it inside of myself,

and through all I believed it was for this I had bled:

For faults out there transformed into faults of my own;

blame for the seconds existing out of frame.

I can pick up, rebuild, and expect no more.

Discard resets, returns, and the notions of either.

Ignorance has no more words to spend.

I’m present—not passing.

Extended hands reach out.

Only the air is waiting near.

It’s not a surprise anymore.

( ❤ Mitch)

Have a happy, safe New Year’s.

Push Back the Dominoes

You want to know the end before the story starts.

If all flesh and bone make a cover for the eyes,

play judge for me and reign over our mutual trajectory.

Find a purpose in these gestures if there’s a meaning to be found.

It’s a lifetime to be spent digging into an empty vault.

Rip away the years and still nothing will be there to fill the chamber.

Here are the hundreds of reasons against exhaling left untamed on torn sheets.

I started the first line with you in mind and for the rest I followed in kind.

There’s a vacancy occupied in each stabbing reminder,

and the pen flies across the pages to capture the look you gave.

These words fill a hundred pictures, shot in perfect sequence,

letters dressed in their perfect tops and ties,

never failing to grasp the lasting impression of becoming a disappointment in that glance.

Here are the blanks you colored in without ever needing a voice.

Looking now, as was then, I never realized how it appeared from the outside:

A sculpture carved in fragile ice melting in its self-appointed sun.

Pedestals spring from the earth; it’s hard to figure how they reach so high,

and why the figures placed upon can so freely press their fingers down upon my frame.

Such a scattered collection of thoughts was received amongst questions kept silent,

all responsibility internalized to embody the sole liability.

This shadow cast by your towering shape is no longer mine to hide in.

Ruins defy disappearance when coded into conscious,

but I’m stepping through every chapter to erase the name inside.

It has been time and still further time to come where barely a flicker remains

of a star that once burned so bright overhead.

Yet what was called connection and given purpose, given feeling,

had nothing more but an excuse attached to leech and prosper in spite of others.

Held so high over me, I leave you powerless.

Reignited without, I find no more of this.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

I said too much of it and I say no more of it.

( ❤ Mitch)

Sunset in Rose

A little hole in the head is all that is necessary.

A little weight off the wallet is enough for a commitment unconsidered.

Whether it’s a trick of the mind or a will of the heart,

there will always be time to take the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

And they’re all standing lined up at attention:

A resurrected skeleton crew set to dance to a familiar tune.

They’re tapping away on a stage worn down through cycles of esteem.

There’s a hit;

Something starts to snake up my veins.

There’s a hit;

No structure remains below my feet.

There’s a hit;

Illustrations bleed into the real.

There’s a hit, there’s a hit, there’s a hit.

When the stream is cleared out of the drained reservoir of these irises,

a stretch of fabric be tossed onto the surface—

The glorious red-carpet affair of the drama of yesteryear’s last year,

and the ensuing anticipation of the continuing coincidence of matching plots.

Never before has the envelope gone sailing off the edge, thusly it is claimed,

as the curtain covers the constant truth of the all-apparent status quo.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and pretend the things that are there have long disappeared.

It’s a ploy to pry the wandering thought from clutching to a persistent memory,

reanimating the undead for their timeless ritual on their timeless platform,

providing motion to emotion as if their limbs are forged in fire and iron,

everlasting in ages and the shifting of geography.

The oceans can swell and change their tides or push off the lands of dreams.

It never circumvents the incoming hit.

There will never be safety from the plunge through the brush and the thorns.

Direct the blocking made so familiar in the quiet knocking of trauma

as the tally marks reappear across the abdomen—

Yesteryear is back on the headlines.

Meet the steady eyes of the glass face stood in the room

and declare the decisions fed in your ear by a whispering ghost.

She’s making promises with her fingers tied in knots,

tucking her full hand around the waist.

The theatrics roar at the sound of a snap

and I feel a hit.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, Finale

Challenged in power twice now,

the act of losing,

foreign to the conquest I oversaw,

hastens its pace,

with a breathing tsunami approaching,

and I, stranded, bearing its weight.

Encountering pain far from past pleasure,

I find scars where armor had been laid,

now the gaping maw of a waterfall’s barrage.

The soul I’ve uncovered begins to decay.

Encountering a force so driven against,

I feel limbs abandon their outposts in favor of ache,

the spectacle of an erupting forest depleting.

The soul I’ve uncovered begins to decay.

With shadows beckoning my arrival to obscurity

where questions evade the answers of morals,

I wonder if this was engineered in predetermination;

If the sights I have seen and the emotion within

were the flaws in the blood I had once drank from,

and the fall I now face is the conclusion I’ve forever known

for being human in the womb of an insect.

I wonder if this is the mistake that drives this killing blow

and if this is the mistake that permits me to embrace it,

watching without pain now as flesh collapses inward.

I know now the love you found.

I find at the brink of uncertainty the heart I never acknowledged.

Can it be…

can it be possible

as I embrace this killing blow,

You can survive to tell it all?

You can endure where I could not

And no man can steal away your domain.

I know it all now.

I’m thankful it could be me

to be your ultimate defense

and take this spear’s strike.

I’m thankful to have lived.

The 5 Epic Battles of Hunter x Hunter! -

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 3

A corpse limps from the caverns of the room.

The cold by my side lingers.

His expression is an obscured slate,

no face visible beyond a wayward morality.

Crawling down the back of my neck and toying with my nerves,

a quiet voice enters the space,

offering a plain request:

Fix a foe who has passed into an unknown.

Defy the mechanics of death itself when exposed to an unprepared mind.

I can care not, for I have no power.

Save a life that has flickered out of time and into memory,

torturing a spirit too young to comprehend.

I can care not, for I know not the way.

Seeping silently out of a growing agony,

a storm begins its invasion of innocence.

Wind races about,

bounding off of the tiles,

the gusts of a mounting anger forming an immovable object

stained with the recollection of trauma on repeat,

the tragedy that makes a boy a soldier,

and a soldier into a hollowed bearer of a scythe

swinging wild at anything that crosses its path.

Here is where the crosshair comes to focus.

Through the hole it makes in my chest,

I see a sniper’s aim straight to my allegiance.

True or not, it is no difference;

The risk is emanating from a towering boy

turned killer by circumstance.

Let it find its match in this room.

I am the palace walls that have yet to fall.

I am the barrier that sustains the life behind.

I am the one with a purpose to find,

a promise to keep,

a word to abide by.

Use everything that you care to use.

Your ambition will land on the shield I create.

As a hurricane finds purchase in unbridled ire,

routes are shuttered at their escapes.

Found in the range of a reaper’s ceaseless lust,

what’s left to consider is to hold fast in the soil

and fight for the secret all too transparent.

gon vs pitou Eng Sub - YouTube
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)

The Living Shield, pt. 2

Colder than a whisper of Hell,

a presence emerges from the gates.

No more than a child yet with a devil’s might

and a devil’s care for collateral damage,

with a crosshair unwavering from my chest

and the last objective I’ve to fulfill.

History screams in a voice barren of negotiation

as the innocent are pulled from the sidelines into the firing squad.

No more can be given.

I’ve become a husk for the sake of another

at the direction of a beloved.

No more can be given but a plea and a promise.

Never is there to be harm upon the casualty of our collision.

If there is blame to be had in the name of the past,

take this ruptured arm for the trophy of your rage

and step away from the secret.

Doubt has been made alien to me at the threat of defeat.

My conviction is singular and your intent is a flying spear.

Away from these walls, you may guide me away,

but it is never to be if a stray scratch adorns this frame I tend to.

An errant action will be off with your head.

I’ll swear this upon the second promise I can make:

Guide me away, but spare the spare,

whose only fault was to be stuck in our middle.

Lay not a finger.

I swear on this:

Upon her first breath I will meet your history

and the score shall settle itself in due course.

Nestled in the nadirs of a concealed arena,

this can all be brought to its end.

At your demand I am forced to abide,

seeing her body flinch as it awakens to the world,

seeing the finality that rests in a devil’s immobile stance.

Should you find a way through me, I now come to fear:

What of the king miles away?

Drowned in the bleak battle that’s assured by your power,

that which I care for most now finds itself out of balance

and I feel duty awaken anew inside.

Hunter x Hunter (2011) – A closer look at Gon vs Neferpitou – blautoothdmand
I do not own this image

( ❤ Mitch)