unbecoming

Somewhere in the lies

In being ignored

In the being taken for granted

this atonement

For all the time I have squandered

Where I have done the same to others

And I know the reason—

Because they can.

The why is the same

as we enact a kind of bitter dance

that is always off-rhythm

in every expression of “sorry my phone died”

“I meant to call you back”

It's there in the corner of your eye

Divisive in its own absence

as memory that cannot be placed  

There is a kind of cultivation 

that never takes hold

a regrowth that never occurs

from all of the hurt inflicted 

within others as with myself

not remorseful

like desert tears 

that never come

 wasted

across a landscape of explanation

where words that never become actions

as prey to deception 

in the twilight hours

where I commit you to memory

inside of the concept; unbecoming

not meant to be—

inappropriate for this scene- 

as black leafless trees

reach into the air 

like arteries to a cold white sky 

in veneration of being ravaged by flames

channeling a dissonant chorus of silence