Words About Some Things

the articulated sounds I have made

to throw a blind dart at the target of

what happens keep falling short

and arcing away, my murder mirrors

and throat fires and gut strings

beat tiny fists against padded

walls crying to be heard,

beyond rescue.

.

there are things to say about time

and distance and irony that are being said

better than I will say them, I am tired

from pulling against formless

draw-and-quarter horses spurred

by cynics hungry for something honest

to be destroyed for the sake of

being honest.

.

the last thing I have left is

speechlessness when

an involuntary agh sighs

through a collapsing chest

and speaks volumes, hold

me.


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