There's a sort of karmic undertow

to the consequences of cleverly maneuvered lies

mummified in secrets.

As such,

it was a terribly sad thing to paralyze the artist

before his masterpiece was even

finished.

Perhaps in the absence of creative minds,

the ego may take its last seat at the dinner table,

devouring itself

with its own shallow, inbred hunger.

It was my usual late night walk with the moon

(I find him a bit more comforting than he who pilots the afternoon).

A little weary chatter between two old friends.

I share with him

my adventures to places he could never be,

and in return,

he serenades the secrets of the universal seas.

I have to nudge him some nights though,

of everything he has to treasure.

How an earthly life holds no sentient pleasure.

He winks to me -

a euphoric eclipse that awakens my spirit!

Gifting upon me

a reflective glimpse inside that cosmic hole.

Oh, how I yearn!

How I grow impatient!

What a joyful hymn, my friend.

I hope we come to pass each other once again.

In the absence of the mockingbird,

I am feckless in the pleasure

of a sweet songbird’s prayer.

Tone deaf to a world

that cannot hear the emotion of the only breath I take anyway.

Huh.

Not even the raven,

with her sad, solemn caws that scratch at the mind like a feral bobcat,

could stir even a word

to break from between my chapped lips.

Dry and brittle and decaying like a misplaced mirage.

Though, perhaps,

I could be the baby dove of a woodwind gadget.

And if I could,

I would imagine it to be majestic and grand,

but vintage in its charm and flesh –

sailing under the opposite of my wing that carries my heart’s little fiddle.

So simple is this time,

here and now,

yet, I’ve never so desperately needed my own self

more than in this moment

that I am drowning in presently.

Just spare me from the commands of that cardinal

who sneers at me from upon his fancy branches!

Do not let him peck at my naked toes!

For when he is spiritless

in his mockery of an agitation

onto the ugly and destitute,

(the ones unlike him),

an energized, triangular bombing-pattern details itself,

headfirst,

into an unopened storyline

of an adventure that awaits beyond this time.

The mockery that echoes

has dumbfounded me

as I misguided myself into a daffy paranoid state yet again once more.

So,

I will not fear my ascendence -

it is, of course, a fanciful dream sung out for me

that will only be awakened for eternity

in the aviary of the skies above me.

Let the morning light take me.

Resting.

Pausing for only a moment to smell that sweet

aroma

that sings from the tulips.

How merrily they dance

under the early noon’s bright mist!

Capturing each raindrop so delicately

inside their silky flesh walls,

as if each were a tear

from a grieving angel looking down.

Though,

I do believe emotions and memories

fade with the passing hands of time’s illusion,

perhaps leaving imprints as we travel.

But I would rather personally desire to know

that there is a finale to this one disastrous life that clings to me now -

that there could be hope

for a new beginning for me

with a lesson less painful to learn.

Drafty air

Stale

That clammy Indian summer dew sticking to the flesh

Cotton mouth

Though

The water pit is well nourished

A keepsake on my window sill that comforts me

When logs burn ashy

Under the Late October twilight

Goodbye friend

Until next Fall

We shall meet again

And laying like a forgotten moth ball bag,

(inside that dark and musty corner closet),

I am the hiccup of the Creator –

something that interrupted the beauty,

the perfection,

of what his eyes held for humanity.

A hypocrisy to outwardly destroy me,

so mangled in name and fashioned an outcast.

I am the shameful marks upon his chalkboard –

check

check

check.

So, what have of me then, sir?

What am I if not of you?

If not like them?

Wherever do I belong?

I am not something solid.

The liveliness of my babes never breathes at me

as pretty or adoring as yours

not ever again

not ever like before

I am not as wanted beside them

as you may be by yours

there’s a deafening ache buried deep

in this splintered and scarred

heart of mine.

listen to it ping

how the emptiness erupts

catapulting itself

against the decaying walls of a now hollow home

abandoned once again

though this time

in the harshest of ways

I could never have imagined

that this was the fate

I had fought so hard to survive for

A hearty mental stew

is what I place on the dinner table today.

Gather around,

grab a spoon,

and taste of the bits of me

that I offer this evening hour.

I wrapped my face in a burlap sack

and tied tight with some crafter’s twine.

A snippet here

and just a little right there –

Ha! The slits for my eyes are just the perfect size!

(I do not want to take the attention away from the pretty vintage bag).

But I do not think I’ll cut away

even the slightest of threads to give way for my mouth.

It’s roasting in here

and my lips are chapped.

Short, quick breaths will have to do.

I may just be a tad proud of my work here.

Maybe.

But the real question is,

am I finally acceptable,

and not so detestable,

that I may blend in just enough now on the same streets as others?

Oh, and how my ears have caught the foreboding sound

of that enchanting siren’s song!

What a mousetrap

to the tangled thoughts I try to be of sound mind with,

but how she wrecks the safety of my attic space.

I cannot be the force of a stonewall

against the prideful, seducing tones that drip from her lips.

I am weakened to a greedy man.

Fisting my hands and clenching my teeth,

I curl into myself on this cold, damp road,

trying -

heaving every morsel of self-control I have.

But a wild, instinctual scream escapes from my chapped mouth,

and, oh, how I have betrayed myself!

Forgive me, Lord,

temptation has befallen me

and I cannot recite the scripture to break the witchy spell.