Who Thought This Beast Was A Hero

Wading absent in the floral age of old memories.
Dead leaves peeled from the skin to leave raw wounds of hope,
space to flourish,
for the new blood to surface.

Press the leaves in the Book of Failed Attempts
and Finished Chapters,
to admire and pine over on the long days of the heart’s winter silence.

Save some room. There’s always more to come.

Like a disappointed child,
I stand in the empty field at the end of the road,
longing for more,
waiting for a magic carpet to unfold and take me beyond this endless dead end.

Anger grips the lungs,
piston breath pushing venom spit to the lips.

Nothing behind me but rubble–
old lies and charms,
lost treasures,
the repeating,
familiar scene.
Millions of identical lives in a house of mirrors,
watching the face of death smile into eternity.

Light and stone and cold fumes permeating through the walls of sleep,
pushing the hands to clutch,
to prize any warmth,
covet the soul of God to alleviate the claustrophobic pressure of the alarm clock screaming.

I stare vacantly down that old road,
emptied into long days,
sad nothings,
eternal moments of joy,
frozen and ever encroaching,
seeking the return to now,
tempting the feet,
my heart,
tricking desire to turn,
to retrace the travelled steps to the void of dead time.

The old skin always wants to crawl back, curl up in that familiar womb–
to (relapse) relax and sleep awhile.

Slip a little bit of delirium in the pocket,
wistful sunshine obliterating my face in the open field,
to keep me company in this uncertain moment.

Soften the blow of the hard grit of the true day–
a playful lie,
basking in yesterday’s romance.
Pretty poetry,
to exaggerate as the years divide me,
stretch the distance between then and now.

Ahead of me,
the unapproachable forest of mystery.
No beat down path, no hint of the way–
only the fresh growth of the unknown.
I take the first step without a hand to hold,
a shoulder of support,
a nod of approval.

I take the first step alone.

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