Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:
When wilted, wills collide and flesh tones sound unceasingly in love's great unknown. Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed, caught enraptured with limp limbs splayed. Post riders and chariots of desire bed down. Ceasing shame prior to well-earned rest, wilted now only in name.
Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
Let no being carry the unearned burden, rife with the compaction of endless wrongs. Hoisted on hollow and growing bones, forcing their shape into something hideous. This hellish load, wrought of all those wrongs.