A memory welling up from childhood
I said once you can't trust anyone too much because you never know
when they might stab you in the back.
Where did this come from?
This cynical voice living in me from so young.
A slow call from some dark winged bird
resting on torn feathers in the bloody core of me.
and I can see how those gray shades have tinted everything
like a black ink blood spilling onto the ground around me.
a reverse Midas touch. Turning each scene into noir madness
These people that I walk around with
seem like they are playing in some alternate universe
and some bad actor is butchering my lines
yet I can't seem to control the fancy flesh puppet
the string suspended in a waxy oatmeal substance
like poorly referenced fog
they say it again and again I talk too loud
my voice heated and growing in volume yet I never notice
a partial curse of being able to project
and of not seeing its maturity
my voice is my kitten turned feral cat
that only my friend perceives after a hiatus of visitation
what cicatrix covers my heart
what an obstinate fool I so often become
it makes me wonder if I have ever let go of it
ever really let my heart in bare naked eternity
trust the beat of another
or if what I trust is some odd game of chess
with finite pieces on a infinite board
these head held in hand moments
these shaking to my center shudders
these at the brink of crying breaths
what do they say about it all
questions asked so far into the chasm
that even my sense of sensing and answer is overthrown
knowing that no words could cover the plunge
and yet even a curdled keen or broken cry
would be more from frustration than truth
pour me from this emptiness
into clean pure emptiness
lick the stained remnants from the bowl
and leave nothing of nothing behind
just the slender trail of cartoon smoke
a bended line the mere suggestion
of a smelled remnant
leave nothing more of me
than the idea
of scent
