The density of moments

The kind marked with gasps

Or hard swallows

Those that sink you into the earth

Or tear a gaping hole into reality

The light of the present

A distant dot

As you fumble along

Dark disorienting walls

The jagged wounds

Of realization

Breathing through smoke

Hearing through water

Even tears won’t come

Until the present returns

Searing, blinding

An apocalypse of personal proportions

That make the world seem a synthetic cover-up

A foreign wasteland

Sucked dry of its beauty

As if dashed upon rocks

Seemingly impossible to rebuild

with the scant shards left

Those Who Are Left

A hand within a hand
The fingers interlaced
A redness rings the eyes
Her pain wails from her face

Her eyes stay mostly closed
Furtively seeking escape
But a life beneath the lids
Flashes what can’t be replaced

Yet at its normal clip
The world still moves along
Despite the torn horizon
Even breathing feels so wrong

Indeed the sufferings ended
For one who least deserved it
And now the pain will set upon
Those left here to endure it

A Societal Heresy

A future detained

A future shot down

A future that lies

bleeding out on the ground


A hope led astray

A hope overdosed

Another hope lost

But damn it was close


A dream fallen ill

A dream that succumbs

A dream without capital

So it ne’er becomes


Potential suspected

Potential a thug

Potential was surely

Armed or on drugs


The future is lost

A hope cast away

A dream an oblation

When potential’s betrayed


Drawn ever so close

I empty of breath

It feels just like love

The passion, the depth


The pieces absconded

Now rest within you

But just how they got there

We both never knew


A seeming completion

To all that was absent

The whole of fulfillment

Not typical fragments


Yet with them you sauntered

Right on to the next

Leaving me as a ruin

A permanent wreck

The Realities We Try Not to Think About

Today was the first time I pictured a funeral.

The hearing of poems and songs I secretly socked away next to my hope.

The ones I always denied would have any meaning to me, not really.

I can hear them blaring through the cheap speakers, crackling at crucial moments in the verses. This would be my coping mechanism, my release from sadness parsed out in tons upon me. The net on my eyes that could catch my tears before they fell.

The pops, the hisses like pressure valves, the distortion my ohm.

The barrier that could hoard my grief away from those who are trying with all their might to share it but never could, not really.

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