Saturday, June 4, 2016

adopted son of war.

 [  be still, my still-beating heart,
      by my side,
        i miss my fifth home,
          but i am home   ]

 got a sucking wound left in my chest,
 where there's the stress of all the sharp
 shrapnel fragments,
 pinned right to my leather heart.

 we've seen the seasons change,
 we closed all the doors to the storm,
 but we sit outside,
 and we're high,
 up,
    on the porch,
 trying to read the rorschach,
 trying to read between the lines
 as the lies and those parts of me die;
 but, i won't be laid low by this day.

 and

 the shiny face of the gun
 in your hand, it's chrome, and hard.
 it's hard to say if it was ever really
 never real.
 never realized that you,
 the religion you,
 combat you,
 saint you,
 is so beautiful.

 there's a spark in you
 i've never seen before,
 either do it or don't
 don't waste our time.
 let the thunder roll above us, and squeeze
 your aching hand around that trigger,
 don't try, just pull pull pull.

 consequences here are no worse
 no better than average.

 and so here we are at last,
 trembling,
 one night, one shining silver bullet,
 through my spirit, the spectral
 shreds left behind.

 trying to scry in the crystal ball
 trying to read the bends in the lines
 crying over the stove
 crying over the cocaine
 crying over the dust of bones of men
 my lust for nonexistence was either sated

 or
  finally escaped
    through
the hole you left in my chest.

we either do it or don't
don't waste our time.