My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

I am servant to a shared passion that slips from my fingers on its downward path.

Feeling myself ill treated, I could raise my voice, raise my cry, cock the hammer back and let fly the feeble words to call it back.

Why call it back when it does me no good? Makes me no more clever than a pile of ashes.

I burn. I glow like a neon flame, providing no heat, no warmth, no cozy little affectations, but a steady stream of vulgarities, trading my wares in the shambles.

“Do you think you know,” I says to myself, “what you’re about?” “I really don’t know.” says I.

Please someone get me out of here, this heat (hell) is stifling. My tongue swells.

I await trial. A sacred imbecile, hunched over in his chair, waiting for his turn, his chance to explain, his opportunity to convince his righteous judge to take damnation off the table.

I digress. I’m weary with words, wearing the shame of my fathers, bearing the blame of my mothers, sharing a name with the blood of my breeding.

I am in control. Am I? Are we?Are you? I take a straight path, a single stab at life. A winding arc of inconsistency, a floating ark of obtuseness.

We stand tall on the morning, bow low with the mourning. Keep pace on the turnstiles, bleed out with the rocks.