A small island with stone lined meadows on a harbor.
Dappled adrenaline through shadows on a child’s swing.
A chestnut colored horse named Rufus.
Ladybugs in Cornwall sunbathing on tall tulips.
Badger tracks in the snow.
These were the boy's gravity.
Her voice and the chimes around her wrist, his oxygen.
Hope exiled in this lovely place,
Beat down in a shimmer-less youth.
Iron-rod beds, in clammy rows of three.
Rusted and chipped even at night.
His strength was diminishing,
Suffocating behind walls, impossibly high,
Where wolves cower and mothers suffer terribly.
Peel back every pain with deliberation,
Mix tossed bathwater into his mortar,
Then hold up high the cup of guilt,
and strike and strike, again and again
until he takes the blame.
A mud trench is a place of solace to
Bow over any sublime chalice of delicious drudgery,
And slay it all in the grail of high drunks,
To mull through the ashes of every London bridge.
And observe untested persons,
Neutered by greed’s morality,
Flitting about in vain satisfaction,
Feasting on the bovine’s back,
Selling sanctimony and snake oil
Like hyenas in a hen house.
His mind was a cacophony of inequities,
Distanced, dark and jaded,
Haunted by unfinished goodbyes long after sobriety's collision,
Knowing that the honor of 'bad' men
Destroys far less than the lies of 'good' ones,
Who spew wreckage and deception in overture,
More pleasantly than Handel's Julius Caesar.
Where are dawn and dusk,
When despondency smothers intention?
What mends torn flesh and blood?
What preserves scarred-humanness a whole creature,
Flawed and inspired?