wait = weight

The red tinged iris of my eye
An album of half torn memories
A tune I long to forget
Places we’d been
And intended to go

She was my
Bliss cheap apple
American pie
Tourist turned expert
And extra sweet lie
The heat of this place
The extent of my defect
As convincing as solid

Turning minutes into miles
Not honest but ugly
Stupid till struggling
Won’t say goodbye
Can’t say hello

General disgust beat my mountain to sand
Sparks of interest held for as long as can stand
The papers read “Fortress Down”
Rubble from disaster, the stain of my intention
The picture attached
My smiles frown

A fraction of the monster leaves him dead at the ready. Chomping a bit, digging his heels and butting the wood till it’s splinters in his hair. Begging anything, to be free. He was painfully aware of every scent in this room, the importance of sterility, the sick, recently dead, last shreds of dignity and an ache of unanswered prayers. The presence of these things was undeniable, urgent…awful. Near five minutes of lingering left him feeling sick also, waiting in this place; giving him his own disease. The symptoms were unmistakable: doubt, loss of appetite, fear and a dull thud where his heart should beat. How someone could exist here was well beyond the means of his grasp. Nearing a weakling he stopped short; turned on heel and approached with an aggression bordering on murder.It blinked up at me without a shred of reason, saying nothing.Malice was more than it deserved; I couldn’t help but…need to hurt it. As the word “obstruction” burned itself into the top of my hands, its phone rang. It stared, blinked once and said “it makes us better”.Just then a high pitched whine sets off in my ears; a trickle of blood found its way to my mouth. A dust covered road lies before me. An army of hobos, dirty clothes and unearned wages spread it on thick, hoping to drag me down that final notch, so war can be waged at eye level. Fear becomes a tangible thing in my mouth, a metallic type lozenge that sucks back.

The ghosts here, turning it round again
These ghost here
Unmistakably pissed

We’d come in off the street, total unknowns. The weakness we shared built on our foundation, questionable universe, overturned homes, lost and daring to lie behind a veil of ignorance. This is the source of it all, where the trail leads, not a secret, merely too stupid to behold. A burden of unknown weight. The leaving kind.Everything strives to makes sense; the final hour turns it round again, giving meaning to your cause, if only in retrospect. The truth is…you were right. The truth is…it is your fault. Effort funds progress, progress gives you reason, stride, dignity, worth and a seat at first chair.Finally his friend reappears, as he stands to greet; the knees decide first, falling, his breath becomes shallow and more rapid. His vision blurs and recedes to a pin prick. The strain of it becomes too much to worry as the race creeps out of view.

wait = weight

thetirade

Joined September 2008

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