Life, it kissed you callously
With fingertips
That held you like a fallacy
To lips
That always spoke of who and how to be

Stuttering a pale remorse
And grinning soft
A smile like a veil of force
So oft
Conveyed as wounded by your fair discourse

Oh, it held you lovingly
Or so it said
And so you stayed begrudgingly
And wed
Your tears to wounds it crafted cunningly

Life, it promised everything
Except to keep
Its promises for anything
Or weep
Because it killed the love you thought to bring

Telling you it needs you so
And holding tight
With no intent of letting go
You’d fight
“But this is life,” you whisper to yourself
Since its the only life it let you know


She tells me I should take her hand
Ascending, glancing backward, up the stairs
In a dark direction
Parallel to her inflection
That would seem as a demand
If I were not adrift from all my normal cares

And saying that it’s she and I
No other and no further and no more
Beyond the we together
And her words like a feather
On an arrow that would fly
With the precision of an archer craving war

I swear on every bloody step
Ascending, glancing upward, in despair
Blind to the rejection
Blooming in her false affection
Holding promises I kept
As if a flower I protect to show I care

She asks me, “Do you care enough
To carry but another wound or three?
Or is devotion waning
Neath the blood your heart is raining?
Was it all a foolish bluff
When so sincerely you proclaimed that you would take a hundred arrows just for me?”


Grabbing onto anchors
In a vie to save a ship
So at the cost of holding something
Do we numb our fingetips

Listening to silence
Just to say we really hear
So at the cost of disappearing
Do we save what isn’t dear

Dancing in the shadows
As a way to spite the sun
So at the cost of seeing nothing
Do we hide what we’ve become

Letting go of reason
And of logic like they’re hats
So at the cost of feeding pigeons
Are we slowly breeding rats


The words are standing awkwardly
Their toes are hanging off the edge, upon a bridge of static
Listening to waves that roar of nothing down below
And so our tongues go searching ’round for artifacts within an attic

And so they rest there wearily
Like glitter trapped in globes they can’t recall until they’re shaken
Saturnine, they rest with all the heaviness of fog
To see it sink into the sea of what was there but never taken

A breath to hold or give away
By lips that only feigned to ask a word of false permission
Anchored to the flickering of thoughts that rise and fall
And looking for the word ‘forgiveness’ in reply for each omission

So with their fingers still upon
The railing out of hope to fly or fear in dreams of falling
Set within a locket like a picture doomed to fade
Do they go living lost and moving less,
And saying, “More would I confess
If I believed that anyone were here to hear me calling…”


Organization, it founders and fails
And the chaos that crosses it quickly prevails

I wrap a condition
A rule arbitrary
Around an ambition
I’m too weak to carry

Plotting and planning, the passage is frail
And this boat of intention has nets for a sail

My logic compiled
Around an objective
I waste like a child
Then deem ineffective

Method to madness, illusive control
Over fictional boundaries, a loop for a hole

I build up a meaning
From new aspirations
At angles, and leaning
On fractured foundations

Belief in believing in orderly change
When I decorate shackles and show off the chains

I set a desire
Outside of my grasp
And then set it on fire
And still, try to ask

How is it that every new hopeful endeavor
Keeps falling apart like the last?


So whether with a smile,
Word, or song, or blade stiletto
They’re just different names for strings
And you, my dear, are still Geppetto

And I, to them beholden
Saying all your lead is golden
Wait with sadly bated breath to see how long until I fold in

And underneath the ire
Where your grin is like a dagger
And the wounds cause me to sing
Your name in pain and slowly stagger

Behind you ever spouting
Words of praise and never doubting
That the whispers of remembrance justify my lonely shouting

And withering in lapses
Do I clutch to the betraying
And from comets do I swing
To disregard the words you’re saying

Collecting, as if flowers,
Thoughts of love where loving cowers
Holding seconds in a shrine within a prison where the bricks are made of hours


How often have I heard you yelling
Talking of the sanctity of life
Standing on a box you made of soap because you’re telling
Everyone of the atrocities within the world that seem so very rife

The horrors and the sad conditions
Unforgivable in all their woe
Pointing to the ones who were the victims of afflictions
In a world where most would rather turn away than really see the truth below

How often did I see you waving
Banners for the ones so cast aside?
Heralding compassion for the souls we weren’t saving
And reminding everybody to remember all the ones who cruelly died?

But now, you seem so very quiet
Taking time to weigh your thin response
Holding reticence as if a virtue – I don’t buy it –
When you claim to carry pyres on your back but now you fold beneath a sconce

V├írathro – Pt.7

Previously: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

“It’s difficult, yes?” the voice was saying. It seemed too close by half.

Still, he couldn’t pull his eyes from the darkness that swam and plummeted before him. His vision was locked like the tide to some vacuous moon; his body felt stuck at an unnatural forward angle – that permanent feeling of taking a step and not feeling the stairs soon enough.

“So much had to be given, but that’s faith, isn’t it? The belief that sometimes you have to give and never really know if it’ll matter. Walking with your eyes closed into the darkness and telling yourself that if you open them you won’t be worthy to see the light…maybe you never were.”

William opened his mouth in some weak attempt to talk – to ask a question. But what? What the fuck would he even ask?

Life felt like some crazy, drug-fueled dream. Like he was running a temperature of a hundred and six with a belly full of mushrooms and LSD and everything that was happening – and everything that had – was just some fucked up manifestation of a mind that couldn’t parse reality.

“But look now,” the voice was saying. “Just look at it now…”

The tone of the voice struck him like when you see a face in a movie and your mind is trying to place who it is and where you saw them and then, later, while you’re in the shower you suddenly realize who and what and where.

Words replayed in his head as the owner of the voice offered him a card for someplace where the stay is out of this world.

William found himself feeling far too much like a pinball – the drop having begun with a briefcase and everything that happened after being little more than plastic paddles and rubber knobs moving him this way and that. Every movement met with an obstruction to shift him over and up and then down. Each one trying to catapult his trajectory into the gaping mouth that now stared back at him.

“Of course, no one ever wants to believe that the blood is going to be their own. Maybe that just makes it easier to tell the other people bleeding that it’s for the best. But then, one day, it was my sister. You get that feeling. That fear. The doubt. You see the cost and you think that perhaps you were wrong, yes? You think that, now that the cost is yours, perhaps it is a price paid in folly.”

William heard a sound in the darkness before him – though less a sound than it was a distinct lack of sound. As though before him was some empty place that was now swallowing the world around it – light and sound and time and who knew what else.

“Now Dira,” the voice said, “that was a believer. Came before you did. Went through without so much as a stutter in her step. Not a word. No tears. Nothing.”

The absence of all grew somehow larger, darker. It seemed to William as though it was rising now, spinning up and out and around. He felt his heart beating, so hard that it hurt, but so slow that each pulse seemed to send his body shaking for several seconds before the next one struck.

“But none of it would have mattered if not for you,” Kayro said. “You can slip all the bread you want under the prisoner’s door, sneak in as much water as you can find, but none of it matters if you can’t open the lock.”

William’s mind swam. His vision shifted to waves of black and blacker still. He felt the world around him reverberating like he was suddenly living inside of a painfully overactive subwoofer that played nothing but one heavy note over and over again. Each one sent his senses fluttering. He felt his skin rippling like water from a concussive blast.

He saw lights blinking in and out. In and out.

For a moment, the thrumming ceased and it felt like a fuzzy picture slowly coming into focus. As it cleared up, he saw what looked to be strangely colored lines and hazy mounds. Those sharpened into what looked like rivers or canals perhaps, but they seemed somehow displaced by the now crisp lines that were set in contrast.

A haze of melting colors gave way to a cityscape of parked cars that sat with flashing lights. Horns screaming where heads were now set to rest. Bodies set like broken mannequins littered the streets that were so obscured that he only knew they were black from his experience of driving on them in some other life.

Fires rose and fell from broken windows where the remains of random bodies were set like Christmas ornaments in a terrifying tree of metal and concrete.

Here and there a figure moved with lengths of purple dangling from open abdominal wounds while they shambled on in some state where they either didn’t know they were in pain or else were in so much pain they could no longer articulate it.

Regardless of the given state, each face wore eyes that were wide and wild. Mouths open like people who, with their dying breath, were still trying to scream.

“Do you see it now?” Kayro asked as William’s mind reeled and tried to process the nightmare that was playing out in his mind. “Can you see the way it looks at you?”




What do we call the hurt
That now exists instead of pain?
For all the woe it might have caused before
And even as we sought a way to close it like a door
The absence is a wound that we would offer blood to see it not remain

What do we call this thing
That now replaces all the tears
We shed for all the cuts that we endured
And every one we dreaded, and we fought, and we obscured
How is it their removal ushered nothing into life deserving cheers?

What do we call the grief
That died a slow and somber death?
When all it ever did was weigh us down
And sing to us an ocean made of promises to drown
We feel it missing now and seem to struggle all the more to take a breath

What do we call this want
That only ever seemed to take
And made us always wonder why we did
When following, it seemed a hell, we found ourselves amid
How is it, as the fire died
And gone were all the tears we cried
We felt like we were rushing toward a dream, so undeserved, we had to wake?



I care so very little
If you’re strong of if you’re brittle
If you’re stoic and you’re brave
Or you’re a coward and a knave
Or if you’re proud of anything you’ve said or done

Of times where you’re the winner
Or the ones where you’re the sinner
Any moment that you caved
Or any life you may have saved
And if to any other life you seem a sun

I couldn’t care the slightest
If you’re dim or you’re the brightest
If you only mean the best
Or mean the worst, or you’re obsessed
Or if you’re certain that you’re second best to none

What matters are your actions
Your affiliated factions
If you mean the things you say
Or if they’re words that you betray
And if they are, then, honestly, the fucks I have to give for you are less than one