The mundane, separating sheets of paper,
tasks given and completed.
A friendly conversation,
easy, formulaic, solvable.
This testing room,
blank, dull, like the mind
after a rampage of frustrated actions.
Forever there will be the knowledge of a better time.
Perfect memories, flawless through the lens of distance
and, well, sheer nostalgia.
She cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts.
I speak. Words?
If we speak truth into a bucket of lies
there will be war.
Just wait. A mind of lies hates its enemies
and swarms them to slaughter them in sheer numbers.
In the folds of self-comfort they will hide,
depreciating whatever comes into their trap,
and pounce on light like it's tangible.
There is a warrior who tells me to fight
he says things like
"I am with you."
And I wish the happy,
under years of darkness, would resist.
Not to squirm as if already taken,
rise to the place that it is,
fulfill its creational intention,
become a conquering entity
love in screaming persistency
to the point of revolution--
he is telling me to fight.
And I will.
lashes deepening conversation,
gifts in knowledge of companionship.
I will fight. with my counterculture weapon.
and while that
horrible abundance of falsity
it is not bottomless...
like the best daddy he tells me I am free
to ask for anything
ponies and dolls
and strength in numbers
so I beg
I beg until I cannot breathe
and she moves.
I am reminded of the home
she will forever have in my heart.
Stirring whispers truth
written long ago,
trust glides into the place
where anxiety was,
and the air to my lungs becomes hope.