Something Was Written With Thought

Bogged down in the marsh of insignificance in another March, struggling to deliver a message coded in languages unspoken and lights dimmed by the real, or the dreams far beyond reach, or the wandering eyes numbed by one-thousand bright lights and layers, fluorescent corneas weathered by Coronas and Parliaments, waiting for something that will not fall lest rattled, and a mind not fulfilled but battled.

Freckled or tanned, young or just in time, a woman cannot comfort a man for much more than a night. A real man fights the demons and wakes up alone in night sweats, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, the burnt bodies of saviors and the carcasses of thy ancestors, someone lost in the misty fourth dimension of a fogged perspective, wading through the unknown, trying to learn from mistakes blindly made as others watch on, too entertained by the struggle to lend a hand.

A real man is flesh, huffing and puffing to blow himself, larger than words or actions, the desperate lunge into ridiculous obscenities and despised actions, covered in hair, layer after layer, of falsity and defense, asking for it all to crumble beneath the feet of love.

All they lie before is another broad, broad connotation or broad cunt, flapping in the wind and hungry for the hunt, never a feeling of comfort but an answer demanded, a batted eye landed, and a young heart stranded...aged, ready to shake or soak, blown apart by the coke or the joke, battering valves, washes crashing into the now, eroded by the numb tyranny of sex and booze.

You will lose, the battle never joined, Kings anointed, cowards in the dark, confrontation avoided, did you void it? The clashes that come and the ditches that succumb to the peril of deployed id. 

We read each other like books with no ending, frantically befriending and always mending, relations with those we will come to love and come to lose, tending only to avoid an ending, or the soul's sending to the tabloid of a local shit newspaper, with lists of cousins and names and family and tears, mourning those we never knew quite as well as we hoped we did.  

The search may never end, the answer may never arrive, love may never be found, and the world may never relent, they say to repent, and that our failure is our sin, but win, win, is all we pretend.

Most dreams don't come true, and for those that do, good for you, rub the salt lightly for the majority of us who melt at it's pour, an open sore....or, lost hearts hoping for something more. A breath or a kiss, or a moment of deep breath where something fills our lungs and our hearts with a moment of safety, the long lost feeling or once being told, "it'll be OK" and feeling and believing, with both the mind and the heart. It's a young heart's world, but within a whirl, is slips into the furl, or the turmoil of daily mundane, and begins to spoil, in the hot, hot Sun, in all it's toil, but here we are...asking an pushing, fighting for cushion, waging war on ourselves, just to claim we will do whatever it takes, for a witness to peace, both inner and outward, backwards or forward, we search, we hunt, we starve, we want...