The words come out all mixed up and flawed
As if I am some shitty songbird
Singing its song over and over again
Stuck in a place, form-fitted
as a wobbly log of cranberry sauce
flumping out awkwardly onto a plate to go uneaten
we have become pinned-down, entrenched
unable to move forward or retreat
as a stone being dissolved in myriad waves
everything’s fine
the dishes are clean, everyone’s being nice
yet—
within me there is a burning hellscape
that wants to
cleanse in fire
as a scavenger tearing into carrion
streaked in the feted blood of opportunity
it is time to be about
it—
and it hangs in my soul like a torn banner
like a power that I cannot escape
that extinguishes if I cannot perfect it
as a dance, practiced across many lifetimes
as a dance, practiced across many lifetimes
doled out to yearning mouths
in a house made of whatever you could find.
as if we are amalgamations
against the grain of time
wrought to immortality, by some greater truth
in a kind of honesty
a primal rawness to the grip of reality
circling overhead, as streaked feathers against the sky
impetuous—
as awakening the gears of some great machine
becoming—
As we must rise to meet our fate, every. single. day.
