flippant remarks about the poverty of the soul
languid indifference sliding into a metal bowl
but the bowl refuses to feed
instead prolonging their need
absurdity becomes a commodity
insanity now a luxury
eyes clouded by belabored breath
joy noiselessly ripped away
into a vacuum
hopelessly black, devoid of red
no more green
Chaos is King of all
Random is his Queen
Wither, Waste, Weep.
How does the warrior not tremble before eternal insentience?
For him-is laughter inconsequential?
the trumpet slices the air, harbinger of death
the rape of the soul endured
leaping over anguish, deferred grief burns savagely
does she weep for him? how? when does she find the time?
or does time stop, only to have itself stolen from those who need it most?
where does yesterday live? where does that whispered joke or secret smile find meaning?
is there a doorway they pass through, only to have it vanish, forbidden?
childhood taken hostage by the wrist, icy fingers refusing to unfurl, cutting deep
conversations existing only in the mists of memory, embraces and promises drawing reason from wistful sighs