the silence of the place rings out, echoing the hope, mocking the feeling of despair

triumphant tragedy

the feeling of being a ghost in your feeble existence, haunting laughter, daydreaming the static of another life

cryptic

sadomasochistic, reciprocating, undulating, oscillating

head cradled in numb hands

the migraine ingrained until all else is false, triple spiked, full frontal self induced lobotomy

destroy memories, fantasies, nightmarish realities of pain and the awareness that none of it is happening, happenstance and turbulent in ever increasing waves, typhoon force, typhoid feverish, red splotches and sketches of singular incremental dismay

lurking just under doubt

the constant ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer upon the unshaped metal, red hot and nearly fluid, formless except in the mind of the creator

glowing, the only light in the darkened cave, an allegory, an absurdity, abusive and ill equipped to alleviate the constant pressure

if every cry is ignored, every prayer goes unheard, wishes are misspent breaths into the cold abyss of harbored whimsy

what is the point

there has to be a point, an end game, a final act to this dismal play told in the emotionless voice of a suicidal narrator

roses rain from the invisible audience

fanfare and bows, broken vows

promises of more, as void of meaning as anything, made at the height of dependency, destined to fade into obscurity

sarcastic response, neurotic and necrotic, like an opioid crutch, intestinal clutch, stunted and punted to the dark side of the tomb

yet a burning desire still flares

a loathsome thing, incorporating gallons of seawater, buoyant and unyielding

the will is strong, the words are lacking

balance the ballista, fuselage and fraudulent horoscopes, layered and stacked, dominos in a maelstrom

tea leaves and tarot cards, the hanged man, death upside down, the tower, the lovers, the queen of swords, page of cups and the heirophant, troubling portents and a future of meaningless words

crystal ball and sleight of hand, fortune smiles on the weak

incense, incensed, a phantom in my own skin, a fantastic phantasm destined to roam alone, chains rattling and scaring off any potential match

the distorted image of home

empty arms and hollow soul rending screams

soul rendering software, impossible to win the game as the rules are arbitrary

does she ever hear these vapid pleas, the silent spectre of longing past, the ignoble spirit of heartstrings plucking, this vaporous dream of fulfillment

i don’t know, unable to cast the die of fate, incapable of seeing past the tip of my short nose

i stand tall in the hurricane, soaked to the bone, over saturated in the endless monsoon of one more chance, her name a chant, synchronised to the steady pumping of adrenaline and chemical markers of a near diabetic coma, gall stones and kidneys filled with toxins, the organ failure and steady hardening of arterial walls, looking for her to give comfort, but she looks off into the distance, seeking a heart attack of different flavor, indifference and defiance etched upon her beautiful face, indomitable will and disregard for personal safety

if she would just look my way, see the longing, the love, the cyclonic howling winds, i am a volcanic torrent of magnanimous lava flow, tapped directly into the core of the planet and ever hungry, starving for one last glance

chained with disdain to the wall, a sacrifice for Pelé

throat slit, desperate to staunch the flow, the lifeblood and pure essence of passion streaming out and poisoning all

a poltergeist

breaking furniture and opening cupboards left bare

the silence rings out, louder and diaphonous, coating this empty room into a facsimile of real life

not a glance nor a word

a phantom pantomiming feelings, trapped in a box, a puppet with no strings, walking into the wind

fate, a fortune teller in seizure, desire and tremors, ask no favors and she will tell you no lies

the unintended victim, the undiscerning lover of the uninvited spectre, the shadowy figure of what will never be

the formerly forlorn vision of vacant adoration

the false sum of major arcana on silken cloth, misread, mislead and missing the greater picture but painting as if it was all part of the plan

blank canvas on a museum wall, entitled true love, an ode to nothing

a scrawled signature, etched into the frame,

to you, always, the abandoned flame, sputtering in the breeze, a gentle dying ember, burning for you until nothing remains but ashes in the shape of a forlorn kiss goodbye