The Reaper

And there is nothing I can say,
But that this is. These words,
Their very existence are the necessary bleed for some kind of cure.
This rage that you have opened in me,
This bile that has consumed me and struck you twice,
Clouded with wine and frustration,
You tearing at my flesh in retaliation and pleasure.

I am consumed.
Sapped and drained like this human scum,
Draped across what branches I've scavenged with my inadequate claw,
So far downstream,
Daydreaming too long.

I've met these rapids unprepared,
Caused this turbulence,
From afar in ignorance to be sure.
And this bitter effect comes now,
At this dawning day in all its stinging reality,
The one which would always be tomorrow.

Golden

When this pound of incompatible flesh,
Becomes,
As it does,
Moment to moment,
Like some blinking sun,
It's best of all that I do not speak,
At all.

In anticipation of Poppies

In consideration of ways to counter pain.
For Example, words and fragrance
that envelope me insane.
I am:
old,
shrivelled
and
of a behaviour, so I'm told
unsuited for a man of my age;
Damned perhaps...

Pain

It's not that you're entirely wrong,
and that I'm free from the effects
of what you suggest.
It is this though,
and that being,
that this barrage,
whose perpetual rearmament
serves only to keep me down,
weighs against a full recovery.

I can only hope for some day of armistice,
some pitiful respite on which dawn,
we'll embrace across no man's land,
and play ball amongst the craters,
until night becomes,
and we are...
at war again.

Mote

For whatever reasons,
The ones I know of,
Here I am.

I could say that again,
In emphasis,
Only lost to this composition.

Another strut, lost to the structure,
Like I,
Now;
To time I drip into the great ocean,
Where I soon will be lost forever,
And all that weighs upon me,
And all that I make obstacle,
Will be gone.