Poetry

All         of the phonies are
licking your flesh        away
but you find no reason
to tell them a thing these days.
nothing will kill you
but I can’t believe you think
nothing will hurt you either.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore.

That icy bruise,
wrapped repeatedly                  with clay and powder,
refusing to budge, stubborn.                It thickly veils
the blackness from me           but I forget the joys of
pretending.  Each string           is slowly plucked until
a form of glorious                   resonance is reached.
Yes, a resonance                                of hatred and
filth that blocks all else       and speaks in red words.
And it winds,                         backward and forward.
Like a pendulum                                      of blades,
slashing                                       away into the air,
moving closer                             with every second

Until

metal meets skin
and the crescendo of our sonata
sprouts out hawks, light
and the elusive stream of
white rivers.