CURING PERIOD

TRILOGY

How was I made in your image
If we’re so different?
For instance,
Is this a fun mirror?
Or do we just
Question a God
Who “permits this,”
When such qualities
Exist within His creations?
If we’re so fractured,
With thin, hairline cracks
Threatening to
Shatter our inner being,
Is this a reflective clue
To who
We’re supposed to see?
Are You also questioning
Who You are?
Is that why we call You
A Trinity?

I digress,
If you prefer not
To answer my questions.
I appreciate you
Respectfully listening,
And allowing me to
Wonder if you even are,
To encourage free thinking.
If you ever end,
Maybe then, the above description
Should be amended to a trilogy.
“And you’ll end with me,” You say,
Considering, especially, that we
Feature
Heavily in Your
Series of “heavenly”
Mistakes.

***

KING SAUL

There’s so much I have to say, but you only hear me at my lowest,

my immaturest moments.

They bring back news of what I’ve further ruined.

To build some trust, but then undo it,

What am I even doing?

I know, I don’t need their approval.

But do you really think I feel so good after saying things I shouldn’t’ve?

The person I am at heart wouldn’t do this; I wouldn’t chant curses at a man, then make excuses.

I wouldn’t be so petty, so sick in the head that I test you on numerous occasions,

Then say heartless things when you ask me what the truth is.

But here I am again, facing what’s escaped my lips.

It sickens me more than you’d guess;

echoes back to me in several octaves, without you reminding me what I did.

I feel so stupid,

So useless.

What happened to us just being friends?

Why’d I treat it with such contempt?

Why do I demolish everything I wish to protect?



There’s no reason to believe what I say.

I’ll throw a spear at my harpist,

Then miss the way he plays.



I hope you’re doing well,

But if not—

I’m sorry to hear that.

***

DAY’S END

I lost track of time
Reciting this:
Yes, I’m an ambivert,
Depending on which earth
I lie in.
A constant versus;
Versed in verses,
From the Bible
To my own
Poetic writings.
Indecisive,
Like this—
I miss
Diverse versions
Of divisive diversions;
Visions of persons,
Puppeteered by
Serpents.
I’m assertive
In wording;
Worship in
Public,
But
Protest in
Private.
My two
Opposing
Sides, they—
Don’t see eye to eye.

One hates the
Light; it’s blinding.
He hides
Behind
His hi-vis,

Golden cloak,
With the glass
Dome home,
Classified as
Amphibious gold
By the smoke-choked
Throne.
When will
The search
Be annulled,
My charges
Absolved;
The administered
Drug
Left untouched
By administration?

Not tomorrow,
When we
Never see
Day’s end.

***

SPECIALIST

So perplexing
When the shoreline’s high,
But introspective
When the tide’s subsided.
You’re the tough guy,
Sharing your piece
With key-points
Highlighted.
We all face a battle;
But mine is a
Massacre of the mind,
Straddled in gear,
Ten times the size
Of lobbyist signs.
You brought a
Paddle to a gunfight;
In fact,
I’d pay to see
Your pretentious self,
With selfish intentions,
Planted on
The turf of landmines.

You couldn’t last a night.

Self aware
But spatially oblivious,
I act different
When hit with
Cognitive dissonance.
I pay no regard
To the people I’m even
Sitting with.
Your indifference
Shows you know
Nothing of what
This condition is.

What you believe is
Thinking critically,
I consider to be
Inconsiderate.
Have your fun,
But leave the
Thinking to a
Specialist.

***

FITTING ROOM

To say I’m your favorite person,
Then to run past me with
Pursed lips—
It’s romantic,
Knowing we have
The same heartless
Antics in common.

Any trace of your scent is
Lost in the dust inhalation.

I had difficulty
Saying this when you
Were with me,
And honestly,
There’s a million
Ways to convey this
But I’ll just opt for simplicity.
See,

You could’ve swayed two ways,
And you fell past my embrace
Just to face-plant into
A bag of tricks.
You sit next to a man
Who writes your name
In crayon—
And he does it in the blandest shade.

What is it that makes
Jerks so likable?
I guess my rendition
Just isn’t as amiable.
Either I’m too perfect,
Or perfectly deniable.
Too quiet,
I’m underwhelming;
Too talkative,
I’m overbearing.
How do you expect me
To commit to
Inconsistency?
Every friend is on
The panel of judges,
Whether they rate me privately
Or make their feelings public.
I’ve fit so many molds
That I wonder
How I started.

I wonder where my heart is.

***

PROFESSION

Truth is elusive when there’s no conclusive proof.

You insist on following the logic of things material,

To trace back to a parallel realm, invisible in nature, and the original scene from which we were conceived.

You use this to explain an esoteric system of belief,

Without considering that our existence

Could just be an artistic expression of a demented entity

Who himself is probably someone else’s abandoned dream.

I’m not calloused towards you poor soldiers of the “new world order,” despite the lies you’ve fed me through intravenous. You were just passing the platter from the end seat, I see this now!

We’ve all contributed to an empire, unnatural and disgusting, but no one’s been willing to discuss it until I interrupted the buffet.

There is no evil soul, no hidden agenda; from the lowest of us to the heaven ascenders, we obey. We're all just cogs, mindlessly adherent to the machine we ourselves have made.

But what I put forth is a new line of thinking—
 
One which acknowledges the innability to know our own beginning. It’s frightening to begin with, I'll admit this, and no one can be blamed for trying to understand it - but then, any attempt to is pretentious; if we pretend to know our purpose then we are our own opponents.
 
I know what this feels like—to come to terms with the concept that no greater power is guiding your steps; that everything and everyone you’ve ever loved is hurtling towards what we call death, which none of us living have yet experienced. You can’t indulge yourself fully in what you’re doing - knowing it’s succumbing to entropy. It’s temporary, every moment of joy; no eternal peace like we’ve preached, and that fills you with a profound emptiness, which in itself, too, will come to an end. I know that headspace.

But I’ve lived through it to tell you this.

To tell you, in earnest, that I care. That wherever we are, I’m real! And I love you. And I’ll love you ‘till the course is finished.