These things they swing and bop
Through, dangling on jungle vines,
While they’d screech and whoop.
Hidden, but seen on site
Through leafless lines.
These lifeless things
We hide from those
We say we love
Because we love
Those lies just as much,
(But not just).
Uniform directional velvet strokes
Of distracting idealistic sheen.
Velveteen faux pas fabrications
Eclectically tucked underneath
The gleaning unctioned pall
Of previously held beliefs,
Of Love’s imagined appearance,
Of Love’s supposed transfiguration,
Of doubtless felt patches,
Of thoughtless assurances,
Of windowless panes,
I’d be okay
I forget everything
Or so it seems.
They come in orbits
Of discarded eye sockets
Of cauterised bleeding runs;
Silent pleas of morbidity.
Plagues of infected victims
Leading lonely loveless lives
Simultaneously scream sardonically.
Vitals vieled vicariously
Through thorough theatrics
Of obvious oblique offenses
Taken from lines of informality.
While the forces of projectile
Vomit spray chunked particles
Of intent, sown in cautioned words,
Disregarded or seen as flexible,
Discontented perforated holes
Miss infrared tracking missiles
Locked on to no beginnings;
Guarded walls of inflexibility;
That hateful order.
Stained hands keeping
It in its trajectory,
Pretending to be blind
To the possibilities.
Beating vacuumed chambers
Desensitised to the feeling
From clotted valves
To those words of mist.
Dispersed at miniature shores
And miniscule mountain tops.
Betwixt atomic regions
None the wiser,
Fail to consider
Disruptive tones inflected
Are retaliated with growling
Eruptive retaliation incited
From the receptor
Unable to swallow
A pill whole,
From being groomed
By yes proclaimers
With plastic jewels,
Embellished lines in chains,
Adornment of rows in rings,
Crowns encircling above the brow,
From the finest metals,
Of costly coins.
In false impressions
Where none are able to deny
Or identify constructs,
Spawn distasteful distortions
That can’t listen
Futily I search deserted tundras
For six leafed clover
In Fata Morgana mirages
Morphing, distorting, inverting
Sequentially imagined scenarios.
The harshness of veracity
Shoots flaming arrows of certainty,
Fata Morgana promises
Of travelling distant lands
That were not targeted towards me,
Piercing this soul of its fetidity;
The offensive odor of pomposity;
To have the audacity
To have even an inkling of suspicion
To think that
That tumultuous wielder
Of golden tipped arrows
Would point such artillery
At such unworthy targetry.
The sombre of mendacity
Feebly folds in margins of duality
Of acceptance and repudiations
Where Fata Morgana regions
Supply convecting refracted reasons
Of changes in emotional climates;
Discarded ancient promises dustily
Recovered over realisations of finality.
You were the catalyst for germinating emergence
That were pushed out from underneath;
From soils of freezing and thawing cycles
Where permanence didn’t stand a chance;
Still, even in beguiling barren landscapes
In another flickering optical distortion
I see fields of clovers.
Doubt lingered in the new world I stumbled upon
But I thought
It would not have been difficult for you
To hide your tracks with the materials
You kept stored in your backpack.
So I’d follow anything that came close
To footprints you left in deserted tundras.
She spoke of love and sex.
She had purple flowers
In her hair,
Threw them flamboyantly in lines
Like you had shown me before.
She used the words you used to use.
She had a caramelised voice that
Almost sounded like yours.
She spoke of tides and sands,
The last thing we spoke about
Before you departed on your adventure.
She’d throw letters at the cliff’s edges
Which I’d clumsily scramble to grasp
Before the winds could scatter
Them across the frozen topography.
The time she appeared almost matched the days
You decided to have me play
Your cat and mouse game,
Where I had always been the cat.
She spoke about our game too.
She spoke of birth on the night of my own,
Something you might have known.
I chased after her shadows night and day,
As birds would inconsiderately twitter
Regardless of the extended time frame.
She was a silhouette; a figure,
I probably, mistook for you.
She was similiar,
But the possibility remained,
She could have not been you,
Something felt wrong,
Something was strange.
So I tried to fold her
Into the pages of past mistakes
And set out to find you again.
Burdened by the time that had passed,
Thinking you had given up on our game
And called it quits,
Doubting the possibility
Of retracing your steps,
I tried to give it another shot,
As vultures circled round, decaying
Bodies in hopes optimistic venture.
Maybe if I had not been as successful
In my quests the last three times you left,
Then maybe I would have just kept her under the radar.
Instead of factoring in your deceptive nature
As a possible tool
You could use
To keep yourself
Hidden from perception.