My bones collect
at the bottom of a furnace
casted into the heart of the
deepest frozen sea.
I glimmer to passers-by.
communicating a demeanor
that keeps me alive
without deflating.
Never letting the absence
of substance allude that
a predator has become prey.
We clutch hope at the center of a shell
desperate to make it somewhere big
but what could be bigger than the unfathomable
depth of solitude.
The juices flow from tightened muscles
and regurgitated thoughts. In the absence of light
we make our own. We breath the poisons
from the bottom of church pews
envisioning the rapture and bitter endings.
a let down in the shape of a man
holding letters and fruitless attempts
to see things crystal clear in a house full of shadows
and bad days.
If i could wrestle this gun from my temple
i would build an alter to the falling sun
and let the twilight hours be the holy moment
when heaven and earth split
and we were young again
able to make mistakes
we could walk away from
without regrets
instead of shutting out the voices
of those who love you
letting the waves pull you.
and at the bottom of it all
is where you exist
holding a moment
praying to swap lives
with yourself in a past tense.
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